His Lordship Had a Little Lamb
by Mercator
Summary: Madam Meserole is in trouble. To help, Hanna and a gentleman smuggler hunt for the most dangerously delectable substance on the Disc. That's got Vetinari worried, along with those compromising iconographs. (4th in Seamstress series-FINI-
1. Vetinari's Aunt

**oOo**—Chap. 1 of the fourth story in the Seamstress Series is here, as promised. It's a fun ride, set in A-M and my maritime version of Pseudopolis. Besides Hanna, Havvie and the usual suspects, stay tuned for dwarves, zombies, goats, spies, pirates, ghosts, priests, trolls, cheap seamstresses and a dead parrot. I dedicate the story for the heck of it to **Terry Pratchett** himself, who I'll be meeting this weekend (Yeah!) at the DW convention, where fanfiction will **not** be mentioned (I heard he doesn't like it). He owns the DW characters and settings below, the story and cast of OCs is mine. Enjoy!--**oOo  
  
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**1. Vetinari's Aunt  
  
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"...and his policies have had a chilling effect on trade between Djelibeybi and Ankh-Morpork..."

"Salt, please."

Lord Havelock Vetinari, Patrician and supreme ruler of Ankh-Morpork, passed the salt.

"...which can't go on indefinitely. The sand trade is, as you know, worth millions. Everyone seems to want glass windows these days."

"Disgraceful. Are you finishing that?"

The seamstress Hanna Stein reached over and speared a piece of chicken on Lord Vetinari's plate. She was actually Lady Hanna, Baroness of Khavos but all of that was new and rather embarrassing. She was a Hanna kind of person, not a milady.

Their working dinner took place in a cozy little dining room at a table that seated fifty. Though Lord Vetinari and Hanna were, to some extent, the lord and lady of the Palace of Ankh-Morpork, they didn't bother to sit on opposite ends of the table. The Patrician was at the end with Hanna on his left. A good deal of the rest of the table was covered with paper. Head clerk Rufus Drumknott had brought it in on a wheelbarrow an hour before.

The Patrician, a thin man with a Mephistophelian face, had barely stopped talking since. He had a fork in his left hand, a quill in his right. Important looking papers were spread out next to his dinner plate.

A gold-encrusted grandfather clock at the wall let out a series of long, low, echoing bongs.

_Bong._

The Patrician pushed his plate aside and picked up another paper.

"The Djelibeybian situation threatens to develop in unhealthy directions. The General appears to be..."

"I have to go," said Hanna. "Pseudopolis, remember? Auntie Bobbi?"

_Bong_.

"...bringing up the old border dispute with Ephebie. You read the old treaty from..."

Hanna got to her feet. "I'll be late for the ship."

_Bong_.

"...1,233 years ago, which laid the border at a one mile width down the length of the Djelibeybian river. I would consider that long enough for a precedent."

Hanna fetched her hat off a stack of files and secured it on her head with a pin. "I'm out of time. They'll sail without me."

_Bong_.

"When you return, perhaps you could make a friendly visit to the embassy," said the Patrician. "The new vice ambassador is known for being something of a rake. See what you can get out of him about the General's intentions on the question of Djelibeybian currency."

"I thought you were worried about the borders."

"Indeed."

Hanna paused from buttoning her jacket. It made sense. The Patrician would never send her to get any actual information from anyone. She made a much better red herring. He had professionals to do the real spying.

The last _bong_ reverberated around the room and died out.

Lord Vetinari got up and began shuffling through the files. "I don't see the contraband list. Did you finish it?"

"I'm leaving. You'll have to get one of your _other _clerks to finish it." She put on her gloves. "Try not to let the city fall apart while I'm gone."

Lord Vetinari plucked up another paper on the landscape of the table. "I will do my level best."

"And try not to look too happy that I'm not here. People get nervous when you smile too much."

He scribbled a note on the paper. "Hm?"

"Never mind." She went to the door. "I'll give your aunt huggies and kissies from you."

The Patrician mumbled something about an adjustment to the graduated income tax.

"Right," said Hanna. "I'm off, then." She opened the door.

"One last point," said the Patrician.

She turned to find him beside her already. He was smiling.

"Have a pleasant journey and a relaxing holiday, my lamb."

He kissed her warmly.

oOo

Pseudopolis was a strange city because it was one of the few on the Disc that undulated. The streets sloped up and down at alarming angles, following the shape of the foothills of the Carrack Mountains, which loomed hubwards-widdershins. The Carrack River was the only straight, flat line in the city. It was wide and deep enough to have docks on both sides and there were some nice bridges that were raised by Carrack trolls when the ships came through. When the spring drainage poured out of the mountains, the Carrack River carried it and any accumulated winter sewage from the city to the Rim Ocean. This annual flush, along with the mountains, gave the city the kind of crisp, clean air that Morporkians could only find locally if they paid to be hooked up to a tank of it in one of the new-fangled Air Bars. In the trendy parts of Ankh, Pseudopolis Air was going for fifty dollars a pop.

Madam Roberta Meserole didn't get it for free, but if anyone wanted to enjoy it as long as she did, it was cheaper to buy a house in Pseudopolis. She did years ago, for health reasons. She took the air every day, either in town or in the garden behind the house. That's where Hanna found her.

"Hanna! Oh, my dear! Come kiss your auntie!"

At first, Hanna couldn't get a good look at Havelock Vetinari's aunt because there was too much hugging going on. Madam was taller than her, but stooped a little, and her hair was dark brown with white at the roots. And she was thin. As far as Hanna could feel, the only thing that filled out Madam were the layers of skirts and sweaters and the wool coat on top.

Madam pulled back, her nose wrinkled. "You're smelling very nautical, my dear."

"The blasted ship had... never mind. I'd rather forget about it."

Hanna had sailed in on the Jewel of Istanzia because she enjoyed sea travel better than a carriage ride through the Sto Plains. Normally. Endless fields of cabbage would've been an improvement to the nauseating stink that permeated every plank and hatch of the Jewel. It was prawns. And none too fresh. Hanna stunk of them. So did her luggage. The ship stank so badly, Hanna had roamed the decks and cargo hold at night. Sleep was impossible when it smelled like she was the cocktail olive in a week-old shrimp salad. She intended to lodge a formal complaint with the owner of the ship. He was going to get a piece of her mind. And she planned to dump her stinking clothing onto his doorstep to make her point.

"I am so sorry I couldn't come to meet you at the docks," said Madam. She had the faint twang of a Genuese accent. "I just couldn't _bear_ the thought of getting into a carriage today. Some days are like that, I'm afraid."

She had a remarkable face. Her eyes were dark, the almond shape enhanced by kohl and liner. Her eyebrows were carefully shaped too. The skin on her face wasn't very wrinkled, but it was just loose enough to give the impression of natural forces at work. Age, in this case. Madam minimized it with artfully applied rouge and lipstick.

Hanna was a good forty years younger but she felt underdressed in Madam's presence. Or at least, under cosmeticed.

"I'm so glad to finally meet you, Madam," she said. "Your nephew has told me so--"

"Come now. I'm not your madam. Auntie is good enough."

"But.."

"I'm at an age when I'm everyone's auntie. Or grandmother, and believe me, that is not something I'm willing to be."

They went together into the house. Madam walked slowly and stiffly.

"Champagne? Cecil, champagne, please."

The servant Cecil was a tall, white-haired, and proper servant in the service of Madam Meserole since Madam left Genua decades before to pursue her (significant pause) business interests around the Disc. He gave Hanna a deep Pseudopolis bow and headed for the cold room, where a large supply of champagne chilled on ice.

The parlor was furnished simply and tastefully as long as the taste was oriented to thirty years ago. Nobody was hanging orange curtains anymore but Madam had them. And Hanna thought it best not to linger too long on the shag throw rugs. She shouldn't have been surprised. It was called the Awfully Orange Drawing Room.

Madam crossed over to a cabinet and started pushing cups aside.

"How is my dear nephew?"

"Fine. He sends his greetings. Respectful greetings, he said."

"That's nice. And how is he _really_ doing?"

Hanna accepted a mug from her. "He's still quietly terrorizing everyone, I suppose. The other day he stared at the officers of the Guild of Plumbers so long that they volunteered to give him a discount on the new Palace water closets."

Madam smiled. "How long was this price worthy stare?"

"Twenty minutes, I heard. I wasn't there. They said he didn't blink or speak the whole time. He just stared at them over his fingertips like he does. The plumbers sweated so much, the servants had to replace part of the carpet in the Oblong Office."

The mug Madam gave Hanna had a pink fluffy kitten painted on the side.

"The teddy bear is mine," said Madam, holding the mug up. "Family heirloom. I thought you'd be the pink kitten type. Do you like it?"

"It's horrible, Madam...Auntie."

"What's wrong with fluffy, cute widdle pink kittens, Hanna? As a woman of position and a businesswoman as I am, I highly recommend you take up a symbol of wholesome goodness and softness. It throws people off, you know." She winked.

Cecil appeared with a cold bottle of champagne in an ice bucket.

"I'm afraid Cecil will be doing the honours," said Madam. She held up her hands. The finger joints were swollen. "Uncorking a champagne bottle is one of the joys I can no longer manage on my own. Time is merciless and brutal."

Relaxed in cushiony furniture just tasteless enough to fit into the Awfully Orange Drawing room, they loosened up under champagne drunk out of their mugs. Madam wanted to know what her nephew had told Hanna about her. That topic was exhausted in under five minutes. Lord Vetinari rarely spoke about his family at all. He'd mentioned spending his holidays with Madam after his parents died. He said she was an interesting, influential woman that Hanna would surely like. That was about it.

"Don't worry," said Madam. "You won't be bored here. I have stories to tell! We don't know each other well yet, so I won't bore you at the moment with stories about me. Talking about my nephew is so much more fun."

Hanna refilled their mugs. She was liking Madam already. Maybe it was the champagne, but she felt she could say whatever she wanted to her.

"To be honest, I was hoping to get a holiday from him," she said. "I need one. Do you know what they're calling me in Ankh-Morpork these days?"

"Vetinari's lamb." Madam smiled. "You follow him everywhere. Even into exile."

"It's undignified. I don't follow him." Hanna tossed back a drink. "Makes it sound like I don't have a life of my own. I _don't_, but people don't need to remind me of it."

Hanna lived at the Palace of Ankh-Morpork as part of the three-year contract she had with the Patrician. In exchange for Hanna being a hostess, bed warmer and all around companion, she got a great deal of money, work and stress. Her time with Lord Vetinari included a rebellion in the city and a period of exile on an island she now "ruled" as baroness, though there wasn't much more on Khavos than a villa, a nice beach and a few assorted leper plants.

If being the Patrician's special friend wasn't work enough, Hanna was doing more and more of the kind of work she _really_ hated – paperwork. There'd been bits of it before the exile, but since their return from Khavos, Lord Vetinari had been passing her all sorts of things: budget estimates, confidential files, trade agreements, and of course, the contraband list that she hadn't had time to finish. These days, she felt the only difference between her and a clerk was she got to sleep with the Patrician if she wanted. At least, she hoped that was the difference.

"I admire your perseverance, if I can call it that," said Madam. "Two years of your contract almost down, one to go. Do you think you'll make it to the finish line?"

"It'll be damned expensive if I don't. I'd have to sell everything I have to pay the penalties on a broken contract. Besides, I'm interested to see what kind of prize his lordship will give me in the end. Maybe a set of steak knives or a crystal punch bowl."

"I'm sure it will be more than that. I can tell from his letters that he's learned a great deal about women since you came along. It's astonishing."

"Why? What was he like before?"

"Havelock usually relied on the old insights he gained from his systematic study of women."

Hanna burst out laughing. "Systematic study? _Really_."

"Oh yes, the dear boy called it a study at the time," said Madam. "He always relied on books for basic theory and then went out into the field as an observer to deepen his knowledge. Very sensible for learning about, say, the migration patterns of geese, but not so effective when it comes to women."

"Did he hide in the bushes observing ladies with a telescope?"

"Almost. He pulled his Assassins tricks at every opportunity and gained entrance to places a boy his age should not have been fooling around in. Sanctums of womanhood, Hanna. Bath houses. Boudoirs. Lingerie shops."

Madam drained her mug and emptied the rest of the champagne bottle without asking.

"Imagine my surprise," she said, "when a precocious 12-year-old boy comes sauntering into my house on my birthday, marches up to me and presents me with, and I am not joking – a set of black satin sheets, a blindfold and a jar of orange marmalade!" Madam was laughing with Hanna now. "What could possess a boy to give his auntie those gifts? What kind of night did he think I was going to have?"

"Did he say anything?"

"I had to be careful not to laugh. Havelock was still very literal and serious about everything back then. I thanked him and asked why he'd chosen to give what he did. He said, 'I hope you have a good time tonight, Madam.' That was all."

Hanna took a swallow from her champagne to stop the laughter. It didn't help.

"That was it? He didn't say anything else?"

"I didn't see the little snipe until the next morning. But that night –" Madam smiled broadly. "—I had a visitor. I don't remember his name now but he owned an exclusive linens shop. He'd come to complain that my nephew had been annoying his female customers. The boy had been following them around, listening in on their conversations, that sort of thing. Havelock bought the sheets there, of course, but he was apparently very cheeky about it. He told the owner my address and said he didn't care if I was told about his mischief. And so..." Madam sighed happily. "I opened my door to find a 6 foot tall, dark-haired gentleman with a lovely mustache demanding to see Roberta Meserole." Her eyes sparkled. "Orange was his favorite flavor. He was quite good at guessing it while blindfolded."

Hanna clapped her hands. "Brilliant! It sounds just like him. I'd love to see an iconograph of him from back then."

Madam set her mug aside. "I've been collecting old ones for you for weeks. Let me see, where did I..."

She was at a table, a drawer open, rummaging through the papers.

"His lordship never talks about his childhood," said Hanna. "It's hard to believe he ever was a child. It's like he was born 40."

The kitten on her mug was grinning at her. She grinned back.

"He's always trying to get me to talk about my childhood but I won't tell him. I tell him it has to be a fair trade; you tell me a story about you and I'll tell you one about me. But he never takes me up on it..."

She noticed Madam wasn't making the little noises women tended to make when listening to someone else talk. She looked up.

Madam clutched the side of the table, her thin fingers like claws on the edge. She was bent over and breathing hard. Hanna was beside her in an instant.

"Auntie?"

Madam's grip on the table failed. She fell into Hanna's arms. She weighed almost nothing.

"I just need...to lie down for a while." Madam's face was so pale that her make up looked comical, like how actors look when they aren't on stage.

"Cecil!" Hanna shouted.

He appeared quickly and knelt beside them.

"A little too much excitement, Madam?"

"Very funny...Cecil. Get me to the couch."

Cecil fussed over her, tucking a blanket around her, fluffing the pillows. Madam told him weakly to stop it.

"Hanna will think I'm...an invalid. So undignified."

She looked grateful to be lying down.

"What happened?" asked Hanna.

"Madam has a blood circulation problem."

"The latest in my...army of ailments, my dear." Madam took a deep breath and let it out.

"The pain is the worst of it," said Cecil. "Madam is in constant discomfort. Some days she is not able to hold a cup on her own."

"Have you seen a doctor?"

"I've been diagnosed...as being old. It happens to the best of us." Madam paused again for breath. "Think nothing of it."

Hanna got to her feet. "Havelock doesn't have any idea how you're doing or he would have told me. I'll send a clacks to him right--"

"NO!" Madam fell back into the pillows. "Please. Don't bother him."

"He should know."

"He knows I'm old and that's enough." She reached out to pat Hanna's hand. "Be a good girl and keep Auntie's secret, hm? I'll be better tomorrow. I promise." She closed her eyes.

Hanna went out with Cecil when he fetched the tea.

"How long has she been like this?"

"Several years, milady. The last year has been worse. Steadily worse. These episodes happen more often. I fear there will soon be a "

"Can't the doctors do anything?"

"They could make her worse." Cecil smiled grimly. "One suggested Madam drink a bottle of champagne per day to help her circulation. I believe that has caused other problems."

He carefully set the silver tea things on the tray.

"There's nothing else anyone can do?"

"No, milady. Unless you happen to know someone with Hershebian chocolate."

Hanna had heard of it. Recently. She wracked her brains... The contraband list for the Patrician. Hershebian chocolate had been on it. She remembered wondering what kind of chocolate was so dangerous that Lord Vetinari didn't want it imported into Ankh-Morpork.

"What could chocolate do?" she asked.

Cecil sliced a lemon and spread the pieces on a small plate.

"The doctors said the properties of Hershebian chocolate would combine to soften Madam's pain and regulate her circulation."

"Then why don't we get some?"

Cecil blinked at her. "Even if we could find a supply, which I doubt we could since it is banned almost everywhere, it is highly addictive. The withdrawal effects are said to be quite unpleasant."

"What difference does that make if the alternative is Madam having a final collapse?"

Cecil lifted the tea tray. "If you find the chocolate, milady, I will be sure Madam takes it. However, I doubt you will find any. I have heard only smugglers and pirates know where the caches are, if there are any left. And none of us deal with _that_ sort of people."

Cecil straightened his back and strode carefully back into the Awfully Orange Drawing Room.

Note: German readers will recognize the famous Kreislaufstörung (i.e. blood circulation collapse), the most mysterious ailment ever to be treated with sparkling white wine. (Yes, non-German readers, this is a true complaint and a popular folk treatment).


	2. Maltesi

**Author's note**: Ahhhh.... The convention was amazing. I'm still not over it. In a bar with Terry Pratchett and Lord Vetinari! Anyway, quick comments: **starmouse** – No original fiction published yet, but I'm working on it. **Ivycreeper** – You've got a good nose for plot elements, my dear. The nickname is relevant to the story... **Leelee** – Don't die! Regular updates R' us! **Cassandra** – I actually did mention fanfic to Terry, and he said he used to write it too – LOTR fanfic. He just doesn't want to read DW stuff and find himself influenced by it. Understandable. Enjoy chapter 2 (it's a bit long)! **oOo**

**2. Maltesi**

Morning at the Pseudopolis docks was like morning at any other nautical location. Scruffy looking men in pancake hats smoked pipes around open fires. Street urchins scampered around trying to steal breakfast from the morning catch. Fishermen tramped by with flippers and gills flapping in their arms. It was foggy and there was a nip of cold in the air down from the mountains. Lanterns swung on the piers to help guide in the ships.

Hanna got directions to the headquarters of the Maltesi Shipping Co. It was one of those low buildings attached to a warehouse that looked like thieves had scraped the paint off. With their nails. From the outside, it looked like a strong wind would blow it over.

Inside, though, the clerks sat at tidy rows of desks. There were shelves of files organized on the walls. The place hummed with quiet, measured, business being handled by competent professionals.

One of the clerks pointed Hanna in the direction of the office she was looking for. It was at the end of a hallway. She stopped outside the door. There was shouting from inside.

"...and something else! Your arsehole is more than big enough to berth each and every one of my ships. If you even think of putting your lads on my piers, forget about sitting down on that lazy, swollen--"

"You always talked big, Anthony. Your father never needed to. Business is business, eh? Don't forget that."

The office door opened. A man in a gray suit with a trim gray moustache tipped his hat to Hanna and was halfway down the hall before he paused and glanced back at her with a thoughtful look on his face. Then he disappeared around the corner.

Hanna knocked once.

"GO AWAY!"

She opened the door anyway.

The man behind the desk had stacks of files blocking him in like a siege wall. His brown jacket was crumpled on the floor, his shirt sleeves were rolled up and his vest looked like it had seen better days. So did his hair. It sprouted out of his head every which way like dried-out grass that had been indifferently mowed. He fit right into his office. It was as organized as a drunken beehive.

He had a stack of papers in his hands. He shook them at Hanna.

"Did I take a dump in a temple?" he cried. "Did I piss on holy ground? I have enough bad luck right now to choke a Vicious Klatchian Desert Ferret."

"Who was that who just left?" asked Hanna.

He peered at her through his glasses.

"Who are you?"

"I asked my question first."

"You see this?" He pointed at a carved wooden name plate on the desk. "Anthony Maltesi. That's me. You might've noticed the Maltesi Shipping Co. sign outside. This is my damn office, my damn warehouse and out there," he pointed to the window, "are my damn ships on my damn part of the dock. No ladies have the right to come in here without invitation for a game of silly buggers."

He straightened his chair, took up another stack of papers and started shuffling through them. He was badly shaven. Badly dressed. Hanna doubted he bothered much with baths. But then, the whole dock smelled...nautical.

"You're still here," he said after a minute.

"That's because I'm a customer, Mr. Maltesi. And I'm not leaving until you treat me like one. Or is this how you treat all your passengers?"

He threw his papers onto the desk and stood up, his arms out.

"Oh, where _are_ my manners? They must be around here somewhere." He started opening and slamming desk drawers. He finally straightened and waved a book at her. The _Gentleman's Guide to Pseudopolian Etiquette_, vol. 2. After consulting it for a moment, he gave her a deep Pseudopolis bow. It was stiff. Done properly, the back of his head could be seen during the dip.

"Do you want me to kiss your hand too?" he asked sarcastically.

"Definitely not."

He tossed the book onto the papers and flopped back in his chair. "So. I'm Maltesi, how do you do, pleased to meet you, enchanted and so on. Always glad to meet a customer, miss..."

"Hanna."

"Miss...Hanna. Right." He blinked at her through his glasses, took them off and blinked again, polished them on his shirt sleeve and put them back on.

"How can I help you?" He was sounding a little calmer.

"I wondered who that man was who left. He looked like a ghost."

"I wish he was. It'd mean he was dead." Maltesi waved for Hanna to take a seat in front of his desk. "Phineas Polk. A real bastard. He owns half the ships on the docks. He also owns half the docks in the form of his bleeding union. He's been pressuring my lads to join up, and I mean pressure on the end of a stick."

"He wants to form a dock guild?"

"He'd control everything if he did. Berths, warehouses, handling of cargo. My ships'd be at the mercy of his _guild_ workers." He sneered the word. "If I'd wanted a guild, I'd of set up shop in Ankh-Morpork."

Pseudopolis was frontier territory when it came to organized labour. Most people thought it was the right of workers to be happy they had a job in the first place. It was the right of business owners to be happy to have somebody to do the dirty work for them. The equilibrium had held for centuries.

"That's where I'm from," said Hanna. "I came in on the Jewel of Istanzia the other day."

Maltesi leaned forward and sniffed the air.

"You have good soap, ma'am. Not a whiff of prawns. I've had a word with the captain about transporting the damn things when they're so high they could _fly_ from Ephebie to Pseudopolis." He paused, rummaged on his desk and picked up a small card. "I deeply, humbly and solemnly apologize for any olfactory inconvenience we caused. If any of your clothing is irreparably damaged, we'll be glad to pay for replacement togs of equal or lesser value."

He set the card down.

"I'm not really here about that," said Hanna. "I have a small problem that I thought maybe you could help me with. I..."

She stopped because Maltesi didn't appear to be listening. He was flipping through his _Gentleman's Guide to Pseudopolian Etiquette_ again. He studied a page for a moment, then shoved his glasses in his pocket.

"I think I've said a half dozen words off the _Rude Words that Can't Be Said in the Presence of a Lady _list," he said. He coloured slightly. "Sorry."

Hanna smiled. "Never mind. I'm here because maybe you can help me. I wondered if you know where I can find some--"

The office door opened and a small old man with bowed legs and more hair in his ears than on his head stomped in.

"Got the Star all loaded, boy," he said. He hocked in his throat in preparation to release a gob of phlegm on the floor, then noticed Hanna. He swallowed. "Eh. Got a customer, eh?" He waddled over to her and tipped his cap. "They calls me Old Pete."

"He's my second in command," said Maltesi.

"Right I am, boy, and don't ye forget it," Old Pete held his cap over his heart, " fer the honour of yer dear dead father, the best cap'n a sailor ever had."

"Good," said Hanna. "Maybe you could help too. I have a small problem that I was told only people of a seafaring nature could help me with."

"We're your men," said Old Pete.

"Wonderful. So... I was wondering if either of you happen to have, or know of anyone who has, some Hershebian chocolate."

Maltesi and Old Pete started waving their hands frantically.

"SSSSSHHHH!" they hissed at the same time.

"Not so loud," Maltesi whispered.

"Why not?"

Pete shook his head. "We ain't got none of that around here."

"I've never even seen the stuff," said Maltesi.

"Me neither." Pete stuck a finger in his ear and excavated among the hairs. There was a light sucking sound. "Didn't think it existed anymore."

"I heard you have to fight off the Vicious Hershebian Hippos to get to the only..._c_...grove on the Disc," said Maltesi. He made it clear that the "c" word was not to be spoken. "I read that somewhere. I have no idea where it is."

"Burned down," said Pete.

"Aye, I heard that."

"No more...stuff...anywhere."

"None at all." Maltesi got up out of his chair. "Sorry we couldn't help you, Miss...Hanna."

He was out from behind his desk but he was stopped by Hanna's hand on his chest.

"Please, sit down, sir. There's more to talk about."

"We ain't got any, gel," said Pete. "Nobody's got any. The stuff's so rare, it's worth a bleeding fortune. Five fortunes! The grove ain't there anymore, as far as I know. If there's any...stuff...left in the world, it's old stuff. Treasure, like."

Without knowing exactly why he did it, Maltesi backed up from Hanna's hand and sat back in his chair.

"Maybe it would help," she said, "if I told you that money is no object."

"We don't have any," said Maltesi. "If we got caught with it, our ships would be confiscated. It's not worth the risk."

"I'll pay double the market value."

"Didja hear him, gel? We ain't got any!"

Hanna studied them for a moment. Maltesi looked on the edge of asking her why she wanted...stuff...in the first place. Old Pete was nervously hopping from one foot to the other and flicking the contents of his ear off his fingernail.

"You don't know where I can get some?" she asked.

"We have no idea."

"That's too bad." Hanna looked around the cluttered office. "That's really too bad. I'm prepared to do a lot to get my hands on some."

Maltesi and Pete exchanged glances.

"I'm open to paying you gentleman a good sum of money to help me find a supply."

"It's impossible, gel! It probably don't exist anymore."

"And what if it does?"

"Don't matter." Pete looked to his boss. Maltesi was thinking that the woman in front of him didn't look like the typical chocolate addict. A bit too calm. And thin.

"If it exists somewhere, and if anybody caught us with it even temporarily..." He shook his head. "It's too big a risk."

"I'm saying please very nicely," said Hanna. "Please reconsider."

Maltesi got out of his seat again. "It'd bring us trouble. Go try Polk. He's less scrupulous than we are."

He had her by the elbow and was steering her toward the door, but she didn't let him shove her out. She hadn't wanted to do this, but she obviously didn't have a choice.

"I saw something very interesting when I was on the Jewel of Istanzia," she said. "I was wandering around at night because of the unbearable stink, you understand, and I ended up in part of the cargo hold. The thing is, I was just browsing with my little candle as I'm wont to do when I have insomnia and all those crates, they made me really curious."

Old Pete cleared his throat and looked worriedly at Maltesi.

"I'm one of those people who sees a box and just has to know what's inside," said Hanna. "It's some kind of compulsion. So I found a crowbar and pried open one of them. Guess what I found."

Old Pete was hacking now. Maltesi shrugged.

"It must've been prawns," he said.

"You'd think," said Hanna. "But imagine my surprise when I saw a DeathMaster brand 600-pound automatic reloading triple action crossbow with decorative spikes."

"That's impossible," said Maltesi. "We don't deal in that kind of thing."

Old Pete sounded like his lung was imploding.

"Really? You don't?" Hanna smiled brightly. "I'm glad to hear that. Ever since that mess with Klatch, Ankh-Morpork had been careful about what kind of weapons it exports." She scratched her head. "There's something of a black list. It's not very long – the Patrician doesn't believe in blocking free trade – but I seem to remember hearing that the DeathMaster 600-pound automatic reloading triple action crossbow with decorative spikes was on there."

"I told you. The Jewel carried prawns," said Maltesi. "It did _not_--"

Pete grabbed him by the arm and whispered something in his ear. Maltesi turned pale, then a shade of red.

"Right. It looks like there may have been an...error on the docks in Ankh-Morpork. A one-time occurrence. Won't happen again."

He had Hanna by the elbow but she stuck her foot in front of the door so he couldn't open it.

"Do you know who I am?"

"Course. You're a snoopin' gel what has no business in the hold of the boy's ships," said Pete.

"You don't read the Ankh-Morpork newspapers?"

They stared at her.

"You never saw the name Hanna in the newspaper? Ever?"

Deep thinking was going on behind the still faces of Maltesi and Pete. They weren't big newspaper readers. The stuff was good for wrapping fish and balling up as packing material but that was about it.

"You haven't heard the gossip about the Patrician?" she asked.

Pieces fell into place.

Pete pointed at her with the ear-excavation finger. "Yer not..."

Maltesi slowly went back to his seat. He wiped his mouth with his hand.

"There's got to be more than one Hanna in Ankh-Morpork," he said in the tone of a man who really, really hopes he's right about that.

Hanna opened her purse and took out a newspaper. It was the _Ankh-Morpork Times_. She turned to the society pages, folded the sheets back into a handy size and held it next to her face. On the page was a large iconograph.

"I'm not so well dressed right now," said Hanna, "but there's still a resemblance, right?"

They stared at the iconograph. They stared at Hanna. Pete wandered closer and squinted. Maltesi put his glasses on when his regular eye sight wasn't believable enough. Then he took his glasses off again and carefully folded them in his vest pocket.

He was a man unafraid to tell it like it is. He said:

"_Bugger._"

Hanna put the newspaper away.

"I'm not going to write to Havelock – that's the Patrician, mind you -- and tell him that a ship owned by Anthony Maltesi left Ankh-Morpork carrying contraband weapons. I'm not going to suggest that he take a look at the rest of the Maltesi ships on the docks to be sure that kind of thing doesn't happen again. He wouldn't do it if I just asked. Our relationship doesn't work that way."

She smiled broadly.

"What I will do, if I have to, is send a message to the Ankh-Morpork Guild of Dock Workers that a ship owned by Anthony Maltesi left the city carrying contraband weapons. I will remind them that the Patrician left it to them to enforce the shipping rules. My dear Havelock is known for his fairness and even temper. He never punishes anyone without cause. But he does get unhappy when the guilds don't live up to the trust he puts in them. The guilds don't want him unhappy. I don't either. So it would surely be in the best interests of everyone – even you, Mr. Maltesi – if the dock workers searched your ships themselves."

She admired her fingernails. "I think the penalty for carrying black list contraband is the cancellation of docking privileges and the lopping off of two fingers. Or is it three? I really can't keep up with guild practices these days."

Maltesi leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling for a while. He had around a dozen ships in the Ankh-Morpork docks at any given time. Most of them weren't carrying contraband. But enough of them were that Maltesi had to take a look at his hands and count the number of fingers he preferred to keep. About ten, he concluded.

He fixed Hanna with a stare.

"Pete?"

"Yeah, boy? Ye want me to throw 'er in the drink?" He rubbed his hands.

"Have I offended any gods lately?"

"Well, Helburt was lookin' a little sour yesterday. Said he had gas. Nothin' to do with you. And Finna, yeah, she's always got a gripe, sacrifice all the offal you got and she's _still_ not satisfied..."

Hanna and Maltesi were locked in some sort of silent stare of death. It was like arm wrestling. He looked like he'd personally throw her in the river with weights on her ankles if it wouldn't immediately start an international incident.

"Help me find what I'm looking for," she said. "You'll be protected if you're found temporarily with the...stuff. I guarantee it. I won't get involved with your business in Ankh-Morpork. And I'll reward you. I promise."

"What if we can't find any?"

"We have to try. I told you. Money is no object. But I need a place to start."

"Why do you want it so badly?"

"That's none of your business. Is it a deal?"

A string of maritime curse words welled up inside of him and spilled out in a low, angry litany.

Hanna gave him a nice smile. It wasn't one from her range of seamstress smiles, but it was effective. She didn't look like such a manipulating bitch. She felt rather bad about it all but didn't want to show it too obviously.

"Is it a deal, Mr. Maltesi?"

He rubbed his eyes.

"Any ideas where we can start, Pete?"

"Can always try Syd."

"No Syd."

"Who's Syd?"

"We don't want Syd."

"The stuff is practically treasure," said Pete. "Syd'll know if there's something out on it."

"_No Syd_!"

Hanna looked from one man to the other. "Why not?"

**oOo**

The Patrician of Ankh-Morpork ruled the city from a comfy chair behind a large desk in the Oblong Office of the Winter Palace. It was command central, his personal sanctum, the place where _it_ happened, it being the smooth running of the city for the first time in centuries. Lord Vetinari had the knack for getting diverse factions to act selfishly for the public good.

He was finishing up a memo encouraging the Guild of Thieves to act a tad more selfishly in the matter of unlicensed kidnappings when there was a knock on the office door. A whine of disapproval combined with a scent like a moldy bathroom rug wafted up from under Lord Vetinari's desk.

There was another knock. Another whine.

This was irritating for two reasons. First, nobody knocked on the Patrician's door. He summoned people from the waiting room or he was left well enough alone. Second, the Patrician's elderly terrier Wuffles, who spent most of his time flat on his back in a basket under his desk, shouldn't have been disturbed. He needed all the sleep he could get. He was recovering from a short-term delusion involving lumbering after the clerks, his teeth bared, as they hustled back and forth down the hallway like carts in the street. When he caught one, he bit a rear wheel (ankle). He was now under medication, an herb that made him sleepy.

Irritated, the Patrician strode up to the door and yanked it open soundlessly.

"Yes?"

The man was short, filthy and had a runny nose. He was wearing a helmet and knee pads and he had a pack strapped to his back. Suspicious shaped bulges could be seen just under his trouser legs at the ankle and up his sleeves. Knife scabbard shaped bulges. This was obviously not a run-of-the-mill messenger.

In his hand was a small envelope sealed with wax. It looked like it had come a long way. The messenger wiped his nose on his sleeve before handing it over.

"Sorry to er, disturb yer honner, but the clerks looked busy and--"

"Yes, yes, never mind."

Lord Vetinari glanced at the front of the letter. His name was on it, the Palace, no sender. The paper was sealed with black wax. He recognized the imprint, a cursive _M_. They'd decided to use regular, though well-armed, couriers instead of diplomatic dispatches for correspondence that was less...diplomatic. There was actually less of a chance of the letters being intercepted by third parties because anyone interested in Vetinari's correspondence assumed the Patrician would never send or receive anything of interest through a regular courier. That's why most things of interest were sent by him through a regular courier.

He was smiling when he glanced up and discovered the messenger had a mud-caked hand stretched palm up toward him.

"If yer honner could see yer way to a small donation to help along a poor courier..."

"Indeed. Sterling work. Good man." The Patrician draped his handkerchief over the courier's hand. The door was tipped closed with the heal of his boot.

Muttering, the courier wiped his nose with the handkerchief and wondered if a soiled hanky from the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork had any street value. He went to find Dibbler.

Lord Vetinari had the letter opened and read full through before he reached his desk chair. He read it a second time, then pushed his work out of the way, prepared a new sheet of paper, inked a quill, and started writing a reply.

It was somehow easier to do now, as if Hanna's absence freed him from the tiny jot of guilt that accompanied the pleasure he had when he wrote those letters. Guilt, however minute, had no place in the heart of a politician. It'd be hard to look in the mirror mornings if it did.


	3. Naughty Devil

**A-Note**: Hi all! **Zephr**- Pratchett is known for being very close to his fans. I thought he was a great sport. Yea to see **Jurious** again! **Ivy **and** Drakyndra** – the real question was how to get Vetinari away from his horde of adoring women (of which I was one)! I have a great photo of us. I don't think I saw him drinking alcohol, btw. Ok, the saga continues with...

**3. Naughty Devil**

Hanna spent the day tending to Madam. Nothing was said about Maltesi and the chocolate, though Hanna assumed Madam would find out eventually. Lord Vetinari's aunt had eyes and ears everywhere. He had to have learned it from somewhere.

By mid-afternoon, Madam was still weak but determined to fight it. They had tea in the Awfully Orange Drawing Room, then a collection of old, yellowed iconographs were spread across a table.

One was the only extant nude iconograph of Havelock Vetinari.

It was probably the pudgiest he'd ever been in his life. Hanna grinned down at a thick-cheeked baby that leaned on his chubby elbow and had a concentrated look on his face that could have been deep thought or gas. The curve of his infant buttocks was hazy but still recognizable.

"He looked like himself," said Hanna.

"Actually, he looked like his father."

Madam set a different iconograph on top of the baby picture. It was a young man, about 30, and a dead ringer for Lord Vetinari, which wasn't a surprise because he _was_ Lord Vetinari. A generation earlier. The Vetinari in the iconograph was in Assassins black, his arms folded as he leaned against an Ephebian column, but there was a relaxed smile on his face that the Vetinari Hanna knew never showed in public.

"Handsome devil," she said.

"He was a great man," said Madam. "And a great loss to everyone who knew him. His name was Stanwyck, by the way." She smiled. "The family was terrible with names."

"Your nephew mentioned once he died in an accident."

"That's the official story, yes. Stanwyck accidentally fell backward on a knife. Two of them, actually." Madam gazed down at the iconograph. "Every Lord Vetinari for the past eight generations has died of assassination, Hanna. A Vetinari son has the choice of fearing for his life or developing nerves of steel. The latter was not difficult for Havelock. I believe he was born with them. He took the news of his father's death very calmly, even for an 8-year-old."

Lord Stanwyck Vetinari had one of those gazes that followed you no matter where his image was. Hanna's eyes kept getting drawn back to it. She tried to ignore it, and instead picked up a random image.

It was Havelock again. He was in black knee pants and a blazer and he had a black beanie on his head not unlike the one he wore as Patrician. It was obviously the first day of school and he didn't look happy about it. He glowered out of the picture, the black satchel in his hand dragging on the ground.

"That was right after Stanwyck's death," said Madam. "Leonora thought it best to send him to the Assassins at last." She slipped another iconograph out of the stack and handed it to Hanna. "My younger sister."

It was a portrait of a young woman looking over her shoulder. She had pale hair and a languid look in her eyes.

"She was beautiful," said Hanna.

"Yes, she was blessed with that. Beauty makes up for so many other things." Madam paused. "She took her husband's death very hard. A few weeks after Stanwyck died, she was found dead in her bed, wasted away. I don't believe she ate a thing after the funeral."

"I'm sorry... That's horrible."

"Leonora was always a sensitive soul." Madam tucked the iconograph of her sister under a stack of others. "Our families agreed to simplify the story of their deaths. Stanwyck's for...political reasons, and Leonora's because such drama was rather embarrassing to everyone. Havelock never questioned any of it."

Hanna began pawing through the stacks. "Are there any old pictures of you here?"

"I have some somewhere. But come. No more sad stories. Take a look at this. What do you think?"

"Oh, _my_..."

Looking at Havelock Vetinari at nineteen was like looking at a leopard, all sleekness and stealth. He was sprawled in an armchair, one leg thrown over the arm. The iconograph was old but Hanna could see his boots gleaming, and he had a little self-satisfied smirk on his face that wasn't much of a surprise since most young men that age could achieve it.

"If I hadn't been a little kid back then, I would've worshipped at his feet."

"He'd just got back from the Grand Sneer, his tour of foreign countries," said Madam. "Did he tell you about that?"

"Only that he travelled for a year or so."

"He had a marvellous time, apparently." Madam clicked her tongue. "Naughty boy that he was. My dear friend Lady Margolotta should have known better."

Hanna's smile dropped at the mention of the Uberwaldean vampire that had some sort of relationship with the Patrician. Relationship was one of those words with meanings as slippery as a bog toad. Instead of thinking about it too closely, Hanna said, "You know her?"

"Of course. He wouldn't have met her without invitation. A very warm-hearted lady, though that's not what she's known for. When you meet her, don't take her icy exterior at face value. Much like my nephew, if you chip through the surface, the softer bits are revealed." Madam smiled. "Still, I had no idea at the time that she would take _such_ an interest in him."

"There's not a lot most women could do against a boy like that," Hanna said grudgingly.

"No, indeed. Yet he always did prefer older women. Lady Margolotta wasn't the only one." Her smile broadened. "She wasn't even the only one on the Grand Sneer. I am choosing not to name two other countries in which my nephew could have been imprisoned or beheaded as a result of his extracurricular activities. I did suggest he get it all out of his system while he was gone but I never expected him to take me so literally. He used to be that way, you know. Very literal. And far too serious."

"You won't give a little hint?" asked Hanna. "You don't have to say a thing. Just nod if I get the right country. Ephebie?"

Madam was smiling but she didn't move.

"Klatch?"

The smile widened.

"Djelibeybi?"

Madam nodded once and Hanna said, "A Djelibeybian princess?"

"No details. That sort of thing Havelock should tell you some day if he chooses."

"He was just talking about Djeliybeybi before I left. The new general that took over is a bit of a horse's ass, isn't he?"

"Intelligent, dangerous and foolish. An explosive combination. He also happens to be the oldest son of my nephew's old acquaintance."

This bit of information put Lord Vetinari's concerns about Djelibeybian trade in a new light. Hanna raised her eyebrows, a habit she'd picked up from him.

"Is she still alive?"

"Dead ten years. She never told anyone about her encounter. And when I say she never did, she never did. I have...sources."

Madam gave a tight, rapid smile, much like Vetinari's.

"The General is only a little younger than Havelock, and a very proud man. If he knew about his mother's hijinks, he'd personally go to Ankh-Morpork and run a sword through my nephew. Or try. I doubt he has understanding for youthful foolishness."

She walked slowly to a cabinet and pulled an iconograph out of a cubby hole.

"The lady, not long after her encounter with my nephew."

The woman in the picture looked in her 40s, dusky, her eyes rimmed with kohl, a light veil draped over her black hair.

"He had good taste after all back then," said Hanna. "Not just," she grimaced, "vampires."

"He had broad tastes. The Djeliybeybian lady was a dark beauty. Lady Margolotta was a vampiric one. The third bit of mischief on his travels was a red-head. I believe he was never one for blondes, but otherwise, he was very open minded on the issue."

Hanna had almost forgotten about the third lady. She rubbed her hands. "Was she from Borogravia? No. We've got Uberwald already. Lancre? Istanzia? No..." She went through the Disc map in her head. "City-states. Chirm? Quirm? Pseudopolis?"

Madam folded her arms.

"Ah," said Hanna. "It was Genua, wasn't it?"

Madam nodded.

Hanna was grinning madly and imagining what kind of mischief young Havelock got up to in lands as far-flung as Djelibeybi – clear on the rimward side of the Circle Sea, and Genua, a swinging city on the hubwards delta of the Ankh. She had visions of him leaping elegantly out of windows, furious husbands rattling swords at him while their wives stretched out happily under the sheets.

"You naughty, naughty devil," she said, looking at the iconograph of 19-year-old Havelock. He smirked back at her.

**oOo**

Hieronymous Flick was a mime in disguise.

That is, he wasn't wearing the black clothing and the white face make up and he did, when required, talk.

This didn't fool Lord Vetinari or the agents spread out across Ankh-Morpork to check up on things and make sure the Morporkians were all comfy and happy as they spun their way merrily through life. About an hour after Flick left the first secret meeting of the newly incorporated Guild of Street Entertainers, of which he was voted president, two Palace agents greeted him in a friendly fashion in the street, shoved him in a friendly fashion into a carriage and escorted him in a friendly fashion to the Oblong Office. Lord Vetinari glanced up from his paperwork, smiled at Flick in a friendly fashion, then returned to his papers.

Flick stood alone, his hands clasped behind his back to keep them from shaking. One of the Patrician's black-clad agents stood with his arms crossed at the door to the waiting room. Flick wasn't a talkative man even after a few beers, but the icy atmosphere in the Oblong Office choked him completely.

Ten minutes passed. Papers rustled as the Patrician scanned and set them carefully in stacks. He didn't look at Flick.

A wheezing cough came from under the desk. Flick bent over a little and met the malignant, rheumy eyes of Wuffles. The terrier pulled himself out of his basket and wandered up to Flick. Rather, to Flick's shoe. It was sniffed. Wuffles growled.

Papers rustled.

Now Flick's attention was divided between the most powerful man in the city ignoring him a few feet away and a malodorous terrier far too interested in his ankle. He took a step backward toward the door. Wuffles waddled forward. He growled.

Papers rustled.

It must be known that the Patrician didn't hold with street entertainment, or at least, he made it appear that he didn't because it was such a popular prejudice to have. Mimes were his least beloved of the group, though those people who stood still on a box for hours on end like statues and expected money and admiration for it were a close second. Even the beggars did _something_ for their money. A Guild of Street Entertainers was out of the question. Yet the city's mimes, sidewalk artists, musicians too amateur to get into the Guild of Musicians, and jugglers too clumsy to get into the Guild of Jongleurs were a stubborn bunch. Now that the city was too big to close its gates off at night after kicking the entertainers out, they expected their fair share of the mysterious steaming meat pie that was Ankh-Morpork.

Wuffles took a halfhearted bite of Flick's trouser leg, let out a sneeze that wracked his little body, then lumbered back to his basket under the Patrician's desk. Flick was inspecting his trousers when the Patrician said, "To your left, Mr. Flick, are two doors."

Flick straightened, startled to hear the Patrician's voice after so much silence. He liked silence normally, his preferred method of communication being hand gestures and exaggerated facial movements. But the Patrician's brand of silence was somehow...ominous.

He looked to his left. There were two doors. They looked exactly the same.

"One door leads to your chance to go back out into this wide world of ours and to a normal life involving productive work unrelated to street entertainment or the organization of any guild thereof," said the Patrician.

He went back to his paperwork. Flick stared at the two identical doors, then turned back to the Patrician. He cleared his throat.

"And the second door, sir?"

"It _doesn't_."

Flick looked puzzled. He examined the two identical doors again, then looked around the Oblong Office. There were other doors.

"Er, what about the--"

"Only the two doors on your left concern you, Mr. Flick. I'm afraid life has a habit of offering limited opportunities from which we must choose what is best for ourselves and our families, should we have any. Do you have family, Mr. Flick?"

Flick nodded.

"Then I suggest you choose wisely. What shall it be? Door number one or door number two?"

Flick wandered over to the doors. There weren't any keyholes. After hesitating, he knocked softly on the first door. Nothing happened. He tried it on the second. Nothing happened again.

The Patrician watched with polite interest as Flick put his ear to both doors.

"Er, one of these doors leads to freedom, sir?"

"Of a sort, yes."

Flick didn't like the sound of that at all. But it appeared he didn't have a choice, though obviously, with two doors, he did. He silently chanted eeny-meeny-miney-mo and opened door number one. Beyond was a well-lit, cheerfully carpeted corridor. He sighed with relief and stepped out of the Oblong Office.

The Patrician was back to scanning his paperwork and was making notes on a report when Flick's cries finished echoing up from the chute he'd fallen into that led directly to the scorpion pit. The door/carpeted corridor trick was an oldie but goodie.

"Why is it," mused the Patrician, "that no one ever picks door number two?"

His agent shrugged.

"How long should we leave him there, your lordship?"

"He has three children?" The Patrician inked his quill again. "Release him in time for supper. With my compliments to Mrs. Flick."

The Patrician had known for a long time that in many cases, the best way to get a gentleman to do what is required is to appeal to the sentiments of his lady. It was, he considered, a very good thing that the tactic never worked on him.

**Note**: The iconograph of Havvie sprawled on a chair can be seen at Priscellie's art site: www dot deviantart dot come slash deviation slash 4910967. (URL wouldn't upload, for some reason). Thanks, Priscellie!


	4. Syd's Discount Treasure Maps

**A-N:** Iconographs not invented when Vetinari was a kid. Er... It was... Um...something quantum. Yeah, that's right. Quantum. (Sorry **Carol** – haven't read all the Rincewind books). I'm just pretending they were invented, in an early daguerrotype-like stage. Congrats to **Ivy** for figuring out my handle. (applauds) And yes, that GP excerpt was an inspiration. Ok, here's the next bit! **oOo**

**4. Syd's Discount Treasure Maps**

Syd was actually short for Al-Syde, and that was obvious even before Hanna and Maltesi stepped through the horse shoe-shaped door of Syd's Discount Treasure Maps. The shop was at the top curve of one of the undulating streets of Pseudopolis, but it had still been a bugger to get to. All streets in the city were one way. No exceptions, not even on Octedays. The Pseudopolis Department of Tourism figured that this was the best way for visitors to see every quaint and colorful highway and byway without one particular section of town getting more tourism than another. It was only fair.

Two-way traffic had developed, of course, but it had to keep to the distinctive one-way character of town. When Hanna and Maltesi stopped outside of Syd's, several men on donkeys passed by. Backwards. This was important. All traffic _faced_ the same way, even if it wasn't technically _going_ the same way. A mother scolded her young son while they back-stepped down the street. A horse pushed a cart full of wine barrels tail first. An old couple holding hands backed into a café. And it all worked. There weren't any more traffic accidents in Pseudopolis than in other towns its size. Pseudopolis pack animals were highly valued around their Disc for their willingness to move in reverse.

The door to Syd's was carved out of ebony and contained a grate that had decorative stars instead of slats. The rest of the shop was stone, but not a bit of it was plain. There were painted Klatchian elephant carvings. Camels, tigers, sea lions, star fish. A frieze of what Hanna took to be a sea monster coiled over the door. A thick smell of incense wafted out of the ebony grate.

She glanced at Maltesi – he was not looking happy – and pushed open the door.

Stone wall carvings, blue tile, the tinkle of a small fountain. And a voice, sing-song, dripping with honey.

"Anthony Maltesi. I knew one day you'd come walking back through my door."

Dark and alluring, Al-Syde leaned dramatically against the shop counter in such a way that the light from the window brightened the red veil, yellow sashes and gold hoop earrings.

"How long I've waited for this day! Oh! The gods only know how long!"

In a burst of perfume, Syd hustled up to Maltesi and kissed him quickly on both cheeks. Maltesi backed up so fast, he nearly fell over an inlaid ebony chest.

"And who have you brought with you? Hm?" Syd squinted down at Hanna. "She's not a sailor, I can see that. Her skin is too soft." It was said with a hint of jealousy. "I used to be a sailor, but the sun! The salty air! Hellish for the complexion, I can tell you. There was loofa everywhere but do you think I could find a crushed almond-oatmeal-honey face masque in the middle of the Rim Ocean? Not a bit of it. I can safely say that algae is _not_ the wonder beauty product everyone has been saying these days. Tea?"

Syd spun away to fuss with a cannister of tea that sat over a flame.

If Hanna hadn't been the professional seamstress she was, she might have noticed a little slower that several things weren't quite right about Syd. Very large feet, for one. Syd was very tall to begin with, as tall as Lord Vetinari. Here and there, stubble sprouted from Syd's cheeks. And then there was the Adam's apple that peaked out when the red veil fell away.

She looked over at Maltesi. He had his arms folded tightly and was looking determined to get out of there as fast as possible.

Syd reappeared with a tea in each hand.

"No thanks," said Maltesi. "We don't want to stay long. We've got to--"

"Where are your manners, Anthony?" Syd clicked his tongue, handed Hanna a tea and sipped the other one himself.

"I'm Hanna," said Hanna.

"I am Al-Syde, but the boys call me Syd. Did Anthony tell you about me? We spent some _marvellous_ years together." Syd's eyes were lined with kohl. Mascara was involved. He batted his eyes at Maltesi.

"No, he didn't tell me that," said Hanna.

"Oh, he's always shouting at people but he's really shy. You were always a shy one, weren't you, my little sea urchin? Hm?"

The giggle that burst out of Syd was so infectious that Hanna joined in. Maltesi cleared his throat.

"Look, Syd, great to see you, but we stopped by just to--"

"Those were the days, Hanna. Sailing the ocean blue, a crew of 30 under the very able direction of Captain Maltesi, dear Anthony's father. Gods rest him." Syd put a hand over his heart. "I really could have stayed forever, living from port to port, enjoying long, quiet stretches on the water. We bonded in deep, fundamental ways." Syd took a deep breath. "That's the life for a man, isn't it, Anthony?"

Hanna enjoyed watching Maltesi's face change colours. The pallor was replaced by a kind of angry purplish that dissolved into the red of embarrassment she'd seen on him at his office. He was fumbling around in his jacket pocket, found his glasses and shoved them on.

"We're looking for a treasure map, Syd," he said.

"Oh! I have those. This is Syd's Discount Treasure Maps. I thought up a new slogan for our promotional literature. Would you like to hear it?" He fluttered to the center of the shop floor and re-arranged his veil self-consciously. "I have to explain first. There's another map shop on the other side of town. We're in direct competition. It's disgraceful. All of this bickering for customers. But I read in a marketing book that customers like to go to the business that looks like it doesn't _need_ customers. I didn't understand that. I'm always so welcoming. I'm thrilled when someone comes in!"

Syd giggled again. Hanna joined in automatically.

"But the book said that modern businesses have to put out a professional face to stay competitive. We have to be predators. We have to be mean and evil. We have to act like we don't care if you come to us or not. So, this is what I came up with."

Syd moved his hand as if he was reading from a sign in the air in front of him.

"Syd's Discount Treasure Maps: Home of the Big Pricks."

He looked hopefully at Maltesi. "How do you like it?"

Hanna choked on her tea and started coughing. It wasn't even Syd's slogan. It was the look on Maltesi's face. He looked like he'd gladly throw himself under the wheels of a speeding cart as soon as possible.

"I love it," said Hanna. "You should get lots of new customers."

"Do you think?" Syd twisted the end of his veil around his fingers. "I hope so. It does get a little lonely around here sometimes. _Some_ sailors don't visit me _ever_."

He stuck his tongue out at Maltesi.

"A treasure map," Maltesi said, "for Hershebian chocolate. If you have one." He closed his eyes. "If you don't have one, tell us now. Right now. Do you have one?"

Syd swiped up Hanna's hand and led her to a long cabinet that took up the whole wall. "He's so rude sometimes," he whispered. "He was always like that. A bee in his bonnet and poof! No more Mr. Smiley-buns."

Inside the cabinet were cedar crates with little labels on the front. They had letters of the alphabet on them. Syd paused.

"Now, did I put that under c or h? Hm." He started browsing through the papers inside of crate c. Maltesi dug into the h's. One of Syd's slippered feet slid across the floor and rubbed Maltesi's boot. Maltesi kicked it away.

Hanna smiled behind her hand.

Finally, Maltesi slammed the crate back in place. "Got it!"

Hanna snatched it out of his hand. The paper was smooth and bendable and reminded her of some kind of animal hide. Bits of landscape were sketched out; she recognized mountains and river and the foothills. It was definitely the Pseudopolis area. She was so relieved that she wasn't going to have to sail all the way to Hersheba that the main problem with the map hit her a bit late.

"Where's the rest?" she asked.

"What do you mean?" asked Syd.

"It's only half a map."

"Of course it's only half a map. This is Syd's Discount Treasure Maps. If I sold complete maps I'd have to mark them up to full price." Syd dusted off his harem pants. "I don't want to do that to my customers. They expect value."

"But half a map!? Dammit, can't one treasure map somewhere in the world be in one bloody piece?"

"No need for that kind of language," said Syd. "Very unladylike."

"You said you wanted a start," said Maltesi.

"I wanted a start. Not half a treasure map. What am I supposed to do with half a treasure map?"

Syd lifted it out of Hanna's hand, turned it over and gave it back. "I always note down who I bought it from. In case the customer was looking for the complete set."

On the back of the torn paper was an address and the name Daneloo Sparks.

"Great," said Maltesi. "Just perfect."

"You know him?" asked Hanna.

He shook his head.

Syd slinked up to him. "You know the address, though, don't you? Hm? You naughty boy, you."

Maltesi glared at him.

"What is it?" asked Hanna.

"I think tomorrow's Ladies Night, hm, Anthony?" Syd giggled again. "But you'd know better than me."

Hanna looked at Maltesi but he wasn't helping. "A pub?" she asked.

"The very famous Pseudopolis Bath House," said Syd. He winked.

Maltesi wasn't saying anything, so Hanna paid up and followed Syd to the door.

"I'll give you a little tip," he said. "I tell it to all my customers." He smiled wickedly. "Anthony Maltesi has the cutest arse this side of the Rim Ocean."

"Bloody hell." Maltesi slapped a hand over his face.

"It's true. It's so sweet. Like two little peaches. And there's a compass tattooed on his left--"

Maltesi dragged Hanna out the door and down the street in the wrong direction. It disrupted traffic. A back trotting horse was forced to pull up. There was general annoyed shouting before things got going properly again.

"Right." Maltesi slumped against the wall. "Thank gods that's over."

"An interesting man," said Hanna. "If you don't mind my asking, what kind of deep and fundamental bonding _did_ you two do when you were--"

"Nothing! It's wishful thinking. On his part."

Hanna was grinning.

"You're a one," said Maltesi. "Laughing at me when I agreed to help you on your wild goose chase."

"Not so wild. We've made progress already." Hanna patted her purse. The treasure map was safe inside. "Why don't we head to the bath house tomorrow, all right, my little sea urchin?"

She strolled off, laughing.

oOo

The sun dropped lazily on the horizon. Syd was just about to lock up the Discount Treasure Map shop and get something to eat when he had an unexpected visitor.

He wasn't particularly tall or short, not particularly handsome or ugly. His hair wasn't dark or light, but somewhere in the middle. Same for his eyes. He was what one could call nondescript.

"Oh! Fancy seeing a customer so late!" Syd fluttered up to the man. "Can I help you, sir? I just know you're looking for a map. But first I can offer you tea, hm?" He spun away to re-light the little burner under the tea pot.

The man was observant. It was his job. It took him about half a second to figure out what was underneath Syd's harem girl pants. Strategy was chosen.

He strolled around the shop. Strutted, really, and pretended to browse.

"I haven't seen you around here before," said Syd. "New in town?"

"No, no. I have a new interest in maps. I heard Syd's Discount Treasure Maps was the best place to develop my new...passion."

The man smiled. He had a rather nice smile if he chose to use it.

Syd's eyes went wide, he recovered, and fussed with the tea cups.

"You're in the right place, sir. Yes you are. Could I ask your name, good sir?"

"Dennis."

"I'm Syd." Syd held out his hand palm down and Dennis bent over it politely. His lips brushed the skin.

Syd gasped. Dennis came up from the bow with a rather...pleasant look on his face. Syd stared at his hand.

"Um... Were you looking for anything in particular, Dennis?"

"Well, I ran into Mr. Maltesi and he mentioned that--"

"Oh, Anthony! A _dream_, isn't he?"

Dennis nodded. "He appears to be going around with a woman."

"Her name's Hanna. A nice thing, but... Oh, what a _waste_." Syd sighed.

His veil was thoughtfully re-arranged by Dennis.

"Mr. Maltesi...Anthony, he mentioned coming in here."

"Finally! He never comes and sees me. I've given up on him."

Dennis kept plucking at Syd's veil, patting and tucking, and Syd was having trouble figuring out what to do with his hands. Or anything else. He kept talking. "Um...He was here with that Hanna, and they were looking for a map."

"Oh?"

"Hershebian chocolate. I think they're off on a treasure hunt. What a lucky girl. It all sounds like so much fun."

Dennis smiled again.

"Is that tea ready?"

Syd scurried over to pour. Dennis pulled open the cupboard where the maps were stored and flipped quickly through the appropriate boxes. He came up empty. Syd obviously didn't make copies, and there weren't anymore chocolate maps. He pulled out a promising alternative.

They sipped tea and chatted for a few minutes. Syd tried out his "Home of the Big Pricks," and Dennis laughed. Syd was heartened.

"What do you have there, Dennis?"

"This is half a map to the Quantum Weather Book. I've always wanted to control the weather. Rain makes me so...down."

"Oh, me too! Do promise if you find the book, you'll do the ritual that makes it sunny here always. I'd so appreciate it."

Dennis finished his tea and pressed some gold coins into Syd's warm hand.

"I promise. You're very hospitable, Syd. You know how to take care of your customers. I'll be coming back."

He went to the door. Syd hovered just behind.

"Oh, do! Come back any time. We're always open for valued customers."

"I'm glad to hear that. Oh." Dennis seemed to remember something. "Anthony said other people – well, he mentioned they might be drab, sad, very _lonely _men -- might be asking what map he and this Hanna bought. He asked me to ask you not to tell them. It might be easier if you think of it this way: Anthony bought the Quantum Weather Book map, hm?" He held up the map and Syd nodded. "He said he'd be very grateful if you said that to anyone who asks." Dennis paused. "And if you showered your hospitality on these men, should they come. They'll appreciate it. As I have."

Dennis chipped Syd on the chin and left the shop.

oOo

Fifteen minutes later, a knock came to Syd's door.

It was a man. If possible, he had fewer memorable things about him than Dennis. Even his coat was a drab, forgettable colour. His name was Lester. It fit.

"Sorry I've come by so late, but I was just walking and I thought..."

"Are you here about the map Anthony Maltesi bought?"

Lester looked surprised.

"Er...yes."

"Oh, you poor man. You poor, poor man." Syd took him by the arm. "Just let Syd take care of you, hm?"

He batted his eyes.


	5. The Trouble with Seamstresses

**A-N**: Fast update for the Vetinari fans... (smile) **oOo**

**5. The Trouble with Seamstresses**

Hanna thought Madam talked too much about Lord Vetinari, but didn't know how to tell her that. She kept quiet and listened and that might have been why she lay awake for a while that night remembering things she'd forgotten. In the early days of the contract, the Patrician needed to be, in various ways, _trained_. There'd been times when she didn't think he was taking her or her art seriously.

One time...

"Hanna."

"Yes, sir?"

"Is this all really necessary?"

She dropped the pose she'd struck against the far bedpost in his bedroom and folded her arms over the short gauzy robe that did nothing to hide the corset underneath. The Patrician sat up in bed, the blankets around his waist, arms resting on his knees. He looked amused.

That is not what Hanna wanted him to look like. He was supposed to look...stimulated. Aroused. Hungry.

He was not supposed to be suppressing a laugh. She could see it, there in the curl of his lips.

"What are you laughing at?"

"Am I laughing?"

"You're laughing inside."

"I am always laughing inside." He allowed a transient smile. "I only wonder what the purpose of this..." he waved at her lace garter belts and fish net stockings, "...theater is."

"You're supposed to be stunned by my sensual charms," snapped Hanna.

"At the moment, I am stunned by the superfluity of your clothing."

Hanna wore her hair down, something she only did in the bedroom. A woman's hair was a weapon in the arsenal of a seamstress, or of any woman whose goal was the private arousal of a man. It spread over her shoulders and down her arms like a veil. Irritated now, she flicked it out of her way.

"There is an _art_ to all of this, you know," she said. "It's not just a matter of the mechanical act that--"

"Mechanical! Dear me." The Patrician cleared his throat. "Have I been mechanical?"

"That's not what I meant."

"Ah. I am relieved to hear that."

"I meant there are two sides to the coin: seduction is one of them."

"I was under the impression that seduction was a tool to achieve the...other side of the coin."

Hanna sat beside him. "Only sometimes. Seduction is an ongoing aspect of the relationship, a subtle play between a couple that happens all the time in a low-level way. It only reaches its higher stages in the bedroom or..." Hanna smiled, "...wherever. It's different from flirting; that's just sending signals. Seduction is a consistent, subterranean attitude between lovers."

The Patrician gazed thoughtfully at Hanna's corset. It was dark blue.

"If Mrs. Palm ever opens a guild school, you should lecture on Seduction Theory. I'd certainly have someone take notes for me."

The corset was a model that laced up the front. He tugged at the laces. The bow wouldn't give.

"I still find this gift wrap unnecessary," he sighed. He pulled a knife from under his pillow and sliced through the bow. Hanna squealed.

"If you didn't want a quality seamstress, you should have got someone cheaper, sir. I'm not going to just sprawl out on the covers at your command, that kind of thing isn't worth my time. Or yours either. You contracted for the whole nine yards, and that means seduction _and_--"

He snagged more laces with his knife and sliced them.

"Stop that!"

He raised his eyebrow. "Hm?"

"Stop that, _sir_. I paid a lot for this corset."

"I will reimburse you if you show me a receipt of purchase." He tossed the knife aside, pushed the gauzy robe back over her shoulders and peeled the corset open like a book. "I'm afraid this is all more trouble than it needs to be."

"You have no sense of the erotic, your lordship."

"At the moment, I have the sense that I am not paying you to talk."

Hanna's eyes widened. "You didn't just tell me that all you want out of one of the best seamstresses in the city is..." She almost choked, "commerce without conversation?" She threw up her hands. "Why am I even here? You could go down to the docks and find any number of ladies willing to oblige you!"

The Patrician had to lift her at the waist and move her up the mattress before she'd lie down. He lay beside her.

"There is no need to be upset."

"Why not? You've just insulted me, sir! I haven't practiced my profession this long and worked this hard to have some blasted _Patrician_ --"

"Hanna..."

"Sorry, sir, some _lord_ tell me that a third-rate beginner would do just as well. You said yourself on Hogswatchnight you wanted a companion, not just a--"

He leaned over her. "Hanna. Sssssshhhhhhhh."

"And now you're shushing me! Am I a child now too?"

He kept up the long, gentle shush until it cut through her irritation because, in the end, it was actually a rather soothing sound.

In her bedroom in Pseudopolis, Hanna pulled the blanket more snugly around her and tossed on the mattress a while, but she couldn't settle. The room was too cold. And she thought as she drifted fitfully to sleep that maybe Ankh-Morpork was too far away.

**oOo**

The Pseudopolis Bath House was built in the Klatchian style. It was a series of whitewashed domes with stars and moons cut out of the stone ceilings, allowing daylight to shine down into the bathing rooms. Respectable people went to the baths during the day.

Night time was for everyone else.

Inside, the bath house was a series of arcades around a large central room, where people in various stages of nudity frolicked and waded in what looked like a heated swimming pool. The bath tubs were lined up along the walls on two sides. They were wooden and square and had tablets built on the edges. The bathers needed somewhere for the wine and snacks. What the men and women were doing in the tubs was the kind of thing that would make anyone develop a powerful thirst and hunger. Squeals, shrieks, screams and laughter boomed through the hall. There were other noises of a more intimate nature.

It was Ladies Night so Hanna got in free. She glanced at Maltesi. He was walking hunched over, his coat collar up around his face.

An operatic voice burst out of the noise.

"Yoo-hoo! Anthony! Is that you, love?"

On the edge of the pool, a stocky red-head wearing a knee-length white shift soaked through and dripping soap suds waved in Maltesi's direction.

He hesitated, then straightened and gave the woman a wave.

"Evening, Alison."

She slapped across the tile floor, threw her arms around his neck and kissed him.

"We missed you. You been working too hard. Why don't you come and see us anymore?"

She noticed Hanna. "You don't have to bring your own, you know." Her eyes narrowed slightly. "Or pay so much. Don't me and Rachel take good care of you? Rachel! Look who's here!" She waved toward the bath tubs.

A blond sprawled over the side of one of the tubs slapped the hands of her male companion off of her so she could look in peace.

"Anthony! Sweetheart! Where you been?"

Hanna was a professional and knew seamstresses when she saw them. In this case, relatively inexpensive ones. She folded her arms and gave Maltesi a closed-mouth smile.

He cleared his throat. "Been busy, lass," he said, pulling Alison's damp arms off his shoulders. "We'll get together some other time, right?"

Alison pouted. "Why not tonight? I'm free."

"He's busy," said Hanna.

"What's it to you? Some forn, high-priced tart comes walking into my place with my favorite client and thinks she owns the world."

"Alison, some other time," said Maltesi firmly.

Rachel untangled herself from her man and joined Alison in front of Hanna like a wall of indignant and damp flesh.

"You're takin' business from us, you over-priced bint."

"Stop talking like that," said Maltesi. "Come on. I'll be by next week, how's that?"

But Maltesi wasn't even a part of the equation anymore. The showdown was between the seamstresses.

It was hot in the bath house. And damp. Hanna unbuttoned her coat. Alison and Rachel pushed wet hair out of their faces the better to glare at her with.

"I'm just borrowing him," said Hanna. "And not for business. He couldn't afford me anyway."

Maltesi looked at her. "Hey, wait a minute..."

Alison and Rachel burst out laughing. "Did you hear that? _He couldn't afford me anyway_," they mocked. "Who do you think you are, princess?"

"She's the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork's baroness," said Maltesi, "so show some respect."

Hanna glared at him. Rachel positioned herself on one side of her and Alison on the other.

"I heard of you," said Alison. "I heard you used some kind of witches potion on that Lord Whatshisnamesoundslikeadog. I think you're a witch."

There was a sudden silence in the bath house, as if everybody had been waiting for the word. Witches weren't universally popular. In Pseudopolis they had to operate under the cover of health food stores and herbal specialists.

Maltesi grasped Alison's arm. "Stop this."

"Witch!" she shrieked. "Witch!"

It was picked up across the hall. Women began clapping and chanting it. Men took a break for a drink and a bit to eat.

"You know how we know if we got a witch?" asked Rachel.

"I'm not interested," said Hanna.

"Then we'll show you."

Rachel and Alison scooped Hanna up and carried her to the pool, swung once and tossed her in. A wave of water crashed across the floor. People scrambled out.

Weighed down by her overcoat and skirts, Hanna had a hard time kicking her way to the surface. It was a surprisingly deep pool.

Maltesi was at the edge, Rachel and Alison laughing beside him. "What the hell did you do that for?" he demanded. "Have you both gone insane?"

"She deserved it." Rachel took his arm. "We're your best girls, aren't we?"

He shook her off. "You're both bent. You know that?"

Hanna surfaced finally, her hair hanging over her eyes. She coughed up water.

Maltesi stooped and held a hand out to her.

When she reached the edge, she batted him away and tried to climb out by herself. It was hard. Her skirts were floating up around her. They weighed a ton. She slipped back into the water.

Rachel and Alison broke out laughing again.

"That's it," said Maltesi. "I'm never coming back here, you got that? You can both starve on the gods damn streets for all I care. You're a pair of petty little--"

All at once, the women pushed him. He flailed out and backward into the pool, missing Hanna by inches. Another wave of water slapped up and over the tiles.

By the time Maltesi and Hanna were out of the water, Rachel and Alison were crying with laughter into their wine glasses. They made several rude gestures before walking off.

Hanna's coat hit the floor like a lead weight. She tried to squeeze water out of her skirt but it looked like a hopeless cause. Maltesi patted his pockets and looked relieved when he found his glasses.

"You get what you pay for, you know," said Hanna. She poured water out of her shoes.

"I know. I know." Maltesi wrung out his jacket. "I heard you're getting a fortune. You must be damned good at--"

"That's different," snapped Hanna. "It's not a normal situation." She started squishing away, but turned back again. "And I don't want to talk about it. Don't bring it up ever again."

"All right, all right."

A rat-faced man called Mac Dibble had been hanging around in the wings watching the show. He slithered out onto the floor.

"Girls get frisky on Ladies Night, eh? Yep. Need to dry your clothes. We got a dry sauna. Dragon's breath. Get your things dry in a quicky."

"You were a great help, Mac Dibble," said Maltesi.

"Aw, I can't take sides. You know how it is. I got to work here."

Hanna said, "We thought Daneloo Sparks might be here."

"He always is. His second home." Mac Dibble grinned. He had sharp little teeth. "Not tonight, though. Maybe you can find him at home. Lives on, er, I think it was Minty Lane."

Hanna sighed. It looked like being thrown in the pool was all for nothing.

"Fine. Let's dry our clothes and get out of here."

"Try the sauna," said Mac Dibble.

They went into a side hallway. It was quieter there. And warmer. Hooks lined the walls, and at the end of the hall was a thick wooden door.

"Here we are," said Mac Dibble.

Maltesi had the door open and was about to go inside, but Mac Dibble stopped him. "You can't go in there dressed!"

"You said we could dry our--"

"You got to do it separately. It's dragon's breath hot in there. You'll sweat through. Put your clothes on the shelf and they'll dry in a jiff. But you can't _wear_ them." Mac Dibble shook his head like he couldn't believe he had to explain this basic rule of sauna usage.

Maltesi looked at Hanna. "I'm not undressing."

"Then you'll catch your death outside," said Mac Dibble. "Look. Your lady friend's fine with it."

Hanna was already undressing. She'd kicked off her shoes and was loosening the sash on her skirt. Mac Dibble slapped her things over his arm.

When she was down to her underthings, she said, "Go on, Mr. Maltesi. I won't look if it bothers you." She turned her back to him and started pulling off her stockings.

Reluctantly, Maltesi took off his clothing, one piece at a time, hanging each one on a hook. He glanced behind him every once in a while to see what Hanna was doing. By the time he was stripped to his underpants, Hanna was waiting, facing the sauna door, her hands clasped behind her back.

Mac Dibble pointed. "The boots too, Mr. Maltesi."

"I'm not taking my boots off."

"Them's the rules if you're going in there! You could drag all sorts of dirt and droppings and bits in there on the soles of yer boots. Disgusting! This is a place of hygiene!"

Maltesi grumbled but he pulled off his boots. He did his socks quickly in case Hanna turned around and noticed the holes. A deep breath, a tug at his underpants, and it was done.

"There," said Mac Dibble. "Liberatin' feelin', isn't it?"

"Finished?" said Hanna. She turned around.

Maltesi lunged for a towel and wrapped it around his waist.

Mac Dibble pointed. "That can be considered clothing, Mr. Maltesi. Remember what I said, it--"

"Shut up."

Hanna had no problem with nudity. In the old days, many of her clients spent just as much time looking at her bare skin as anything else. She'd been in the seamstress business long enough to learn that gentlemen with a certain finer taste preferred her to wear a little something, even if it was just the garters and stockings, because a little mystery left on the body had the interesting effect of making her seem _more_ nude. That was the power of the imagination.

She guessed Maltesi's tastes on that point. And that's why she _didn't_ wrap a towel around her. It would have made things worse for him.

The problem was, the issue worked both ways. Maltesi with a towel around his waist was worse for _her_. It was obvious he didn't spend all his time sitting behind a desk. He had sail hoisting arms. A crate toting chest. His tattoo of some kind of coiling sea creature wasn't large, but it twisted its blue tail on his left forearm and made him look, Hanna had to admit, quite...interesting.

They went into the sauna and laid out their clothing piece by piece on the shelves. Then they sat down on opposite sides of the little room. Maltesi pretended to be interested in the wall.

"Minty Lane," he said. "We'll head up there tomorrow, right?"

"Fine."

She gathered her knees under her chin and stared at the door. Something was bothering her. What she'd said to Maltesi about Vetinari being a different situation. Different than what? Than any other client-seamstress relationship? Of course it wasn't different. Not basically. Companionship for money was what it was. No different than Maltesi paying for Rachel and Alison. She'd be a fool to forget that.

The sweat evaporated on her body almost as soon as it sprung up. She tried to sigh but it was too hot. She glanced at Maltesi.

He looked away from her abruptly.

When their clothes dried, they left the sauna and slipped down a side doorway and out into the night air.

They didn't notice Lester, an iconograph slung over his shoulder, slip out of the shadows after them.

Or Dennis, who slipped out of an even deeper shadow and followed Lester.


	6. Sentiment for Beginners

**A-N: **Yes, very interesting iconographs, hm? Here's the next bit... From chap 7, things start going boing. **oOo**

**6. Sentiment for Beginners**

Madam was a businesswoman, but she didn't tell Hanna exactly what kind of business had kept her roving around the Disc for decades.

"My business interests are diverse," she said after dinner. "You could say I have a finger in every pie."

They were relaxed in the Awfully Orange Drawing Room. Madam hadn't had another collapse, but she was still very weak. A mug of champagne was at her elbow at all times. Hanna had spent the day with her, talking gossip about Ankh-Morpork mostly. New guild presidents, changes on the City Watch, the new Uberwaldean ambassador Count de Magpyr, who arrived right after Hanna left the city.

Now Madam settled back with a large, locked book in her lap.

"I heard you were a seamstress," said Hanna.

"It's a convenient thing to have people think."

"Is it true?"

Madam held up a finger, then opened the drawer in the cabinet beside her. She took out an iconograph. It was from the earliest days of iconographs, fifty years old at least. The iconograph itself was preserved only because it was under a slightly concave glass sheet and mounted on a thick frame.

It was Roberta Meserole before she acquired the title of Madam. She wore a skirt as wide as the iconograph and a corset that must have permanently altered Madam's internal organs. She stood with a tall walking stick, for show obviously, a stiff riding hat on her dark ringlets. Her face was pleasant but it was extraordinary for the expression. She looked like she'd just heard a piece of information that was going to make her a lot of money.

"Lovely," said Hanna.

"I was quite young then. Twenty-five or so." She sighed. "Time is merciless and brutal."

"I know."

"Not yet, my dear." Madam reached out to touch Hanna's cheek. "You're still young. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise. If anyone brings up that ridiculous figure of 35 as the appropriate retirement age for a seamstress, tell them from me that a good woman is good for life. I tell my nephew that all the time." She smiled. "And when I say good, it has nothing to do with bourgeois morality."

"I didn't think it did."

Madam wiped a smudge off the iconograph with her sleeve.

"This was taken several years after I met Stanwyck, Havelock's father. He was an arrogant piece of work. He tormented the ladies at the Palace balls and when he got bored with that, he taught the gray hairs a thing or two in the political circles. He inserted the most piercing, brilliant bits of insight into their discussions. He had a natural gift. I had my own modest talent, of course, but in those days, the gentlemen didn't look kindly on ladies invading their realm."

Madam had a faraway look on her face.

"The first time we met at one of these circles, the discussion centered on, oh, an old problem at the time in Klatch, and I'd been making a private study of it for my own reasons. I dared to make a comment and I believe it was Lord Rust – that's the father of the one you know – who scolded me for coming to the wrong conclusion on the question. Stanwyck said, and I will never forget this, 'There are no right or wrong positions, only points of view founded on careful study and rational analysis. If this lady can add to the prism of political thought, she should be allowed in this distinguished circle.' The gentlemen were not prepared to allow me full membership, mind you, but I had the chance to prove myself. That is something else I learned from Stanwyck: create the proper conditions, then allow someone to rise to the challenge. Or sink, as the case may be."

To Hanna, it sounded a lot like Lord Vetinari's philosophy.

Madam set the picture aside and opened the book on her lap. "I didn't mean to talk about that tonight. There's nothing worse than an old woman talking about the old days. We were all beautiful, brilliant and exciting back then, hm?"

"I don't mind listening."

"You're a good girl. But now I want to talk about my nephew. He always tells me to destroy his letters but I just can't bring myself to do it." She stroked the pages of the letter book, turning them one by one. "Cecil sews them together for me. A book of my nephew's thoughts. I look at it often."

She found the page she was looking for, paused, and smiled at Hanna.

"I'm curious. How long do you think Havelock knew about you before you met on that fateful Hogswatchnight?"

Lord Vetinari hooked Hanna into the contract on a Hogswatchnight that was eventful less for what happened in a Palace bed than for the blackmail they practised on each other. Hanna wondered how much Madam knew about that.

"It was a while, I think" she said. "A few months at least."

"Do you honestly think my nephew would spend only a few months investigating a woman he intended to spend the next three years with?"

"Six months?" Hanna guessed.

Madam shook her head. Hanna straightened in her chair.

"A year?"

Madam was still smiling.

"_More_?"

"My nephew is a very careful, thorough man, as you well know. This was not the kind of decision he was going to make lightly. He appealed to his dear auntie to help him. At the time he said he needed an objective eye on the matter. He was" Madam smiled warmly at Hanna, "afraid that his own objectivity could not be counted on."

"Why not?"

"I know, my dear. He gave you practical, self-interested reasons to enter a contract with him. There was some Hogswatch unpleasantness that night, I understand, though I don't have all the details." She held up a hand. "You don't need to tell me about it. I respect the confidentiality between a seamstress and her client. I thought you might like to know, though, that a full year before you officially met, my nephew asked me to review your file."

"He had a file on me back then. Wonderful."

"He's very cautious, as I said. My task was to find a reason for him _not_ to engage you. I'm convinced his mind was made up already, but as I said before, he feared he wasn't objective enough about the situation."

"You haven't told me why."

Madam smiled.

"He liked you."

"He didn't know me. We were introduced once at a guild reception and we talked for all of three seconds. That was pretty much it before Hogswatchnight."

"Oh, before your arrangement, you were at the same social occasions more often than you realize. He's quite good at lurking in the shadows where no one can see him. I told you the story about Mr. Orange Marmelade. Havelock was a great believer in learning about ladies through long, patient observation."

She tapped the book.

"He wrote this a year before you officially met: 'I had another opportunity to observe Miss Stein, at the annual wine tasting hosted by the vintners. She made a witty speech about the superior qualities of beer before moving on to praise the Domina grape, accenting every mention of the name with a mock cracking of a whip. Lord Selachii did not seem to understand what she referred to. She is quite wasted on him.'"

Hanna tried to remember the occasion, but it was fuzzy. Three years ago was long enough, and she'd been to wine tastings since then. No, she'd had no idea the Patrician was around.

"I can't believe he was there."

"He doesn't like to be the center of attention." Madam carefully turned to another page of the book. "He was troubled by your age for a long time. Older women were his preference, and here he was interested in a lady thirteen years younger than him. Robbing the cradle, hm? I eased his mind on the subject when I pointed out that the city would interpret you as the expression of a mid-life crisis. If he painted his carriage red, shaved his beard and cruised the streets with you beside him, people would be relieved that he too has human foibles."

Hanna laughed.

"His carriage is still black. And I like his beard. You know that old saying: A kiss without a beard is like soup without salt."

"My dear, I _invented_ that saying."

They laughed together.

"What else did he write about me?"

"Here he mentioned some of your little jokes. I particularly like this one: 'Is that a de Quirm steam-powered rocket in your pocket or are you happy to see me?'"

They were still laughing. Madam took a drink of champagne and found a new page in the book.

"And here, he said that he was concerned about an illness. You apparently had a very bad flu. Do you remember getting a surprise gift?"

Hanna looked confused for a moment, then gasped. "_No_. That wasn't from"

She didn't get sick often. A seamstress who couldn't work was a woman without income. But six weeks or so before her first Hogswatchnight with the Patrician, she'd come down with something so violent that she'd considering severing her head. At least then her lungs could get some air through the stump of her neck, and the headache would be taken care of.

The doorbells jangled one night, and there was the basket on her doorstep. Her sister Lotte carried it in for her. There was imported fresh fruit out of season and Agatean mint oil, powerful enough to unplug the most stubborn sinus. There were a couple of new history books and fresh-pressed orange juice and a loaf of full grain bread with aromatic, sinus-busting cheese and a sachet of medicinal bath salts. And orchids. The little card said 'Get Well Soon' but it wasn't signed. As a seamstress who got around in Ankh-Morpork society, Hanna just assumed it was from one of her clients and sat back to enjoy the spoils.

"I can't believe that was from him," she said.

"He can be very thoughtful when he wants to be." Madam closed the book. "So you see why he asked my advice on the matter. Your prominent clientele made you dangerous, of course, and it was a good reason for my nephew to neutralize your career. It was the original plan. The extra step to engage you himself came about more slowly. It took some time to formulate official reasons for doing it -- the knowledge you have about your clients, what they feel you tell him and so on."

Madam waved a hand.

"It's all bollucks, really. Truth is, he just didn't have the heart to destroy you."

Hanna shook her head. "I don't believe it. He doesn't do anything based on sentiment."

"Exactly. We were both quite pleased with the more rational reasons we came up with."

**oOo**

Maltesi read in his office by candlelight. He'd got a message from Hanna that the visit to Daneloo Sparks should be put off till tomorrow. It was all right. He had work to do. Pay packets were due out soon. The repair costs of a few of his ships in dry dock were starting to get worrying, must speak to the mechanics about that, and of course, there were orders for prawns. And there were preparations for the deathday party in a few weeks.

It didn't make sense to sailors in the Pseudopolis tradition to celebrate the birthday of someone who was dead. What was the point? The deceased didn't age anymore, and that calculation was the only thing a birth date was good for. A death date was a lot more useful. In a few days, when the beer was flowing and the accordian wheezing on the deck of Maltesi's largest ship, everyone would know that his father Captain Maltesi had died exactly 20 years before. You only get that kind of precision with a death date. Nobody cared that the Captain would have been 70-something years old if he was still alive. He wasn't still alive. What was the point of wondering how old he'd be?

Anthony Maltesi had been 19 when the Captain died, old enough to keep the image frozen in his head of a thick-chested, big-voiced man with a peppery beard, a Klatchian sabre stuck in his belt. Anthony grew up under the Captain's command. He was treated just like any other crew member, except that he had a tutor and every once in a while, the Captain sat alone with him in his quarters and talked for an hour or so about Pseudopolis and Anthony's mother. Even when he was informed that she'd died, Anthony was never told exactly who she was.

This didn't really bother him. He concentrated on honouring his father. It was the reason he gave up sailing and turned to gathering his own fleet of ships. He had a knack for commerce. And his father's name was known in every port on the Disc. It was good for business. The Captain's 20-year deathday was a bit like the 20th anniversary of the Maltesi Shipping Co.

Yawning, Maltesi took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. He'd intended to check the cannons on a few of his ships – all of them were armed, for obvious reasons; if you didn't want to be a victim of pirates, you had to be a bit of a pirate yourself. But it was dark and he'd worked enough for one day.

He put out the candles and headed home.

He walked fast and thought about work because if he kept the image of ships and cargo and supplies in his mind, it might just push out the memory of Hanna in the sauna. Better not to think about that. It was the kind of thing that could get him buried on three continents courtesy of the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork. Better to remember how she'd got him into this mess to begin with. Manipulative little hussy. She was pretty, all right. Intelligent, fair enough. Noble, officially. Wealthy, well...yes.

But so what? Pretty, intelligent, wealthy noblewomen grew on trees, didn't they? They were falling at his feet in droves. Yep. Yes, they were.

He sighed and crossed the last few feet along the docks.

Home was called the Ankh. His father's ship, 450 years old, a classic schooner, 90 feet long, fast and flexible on the water. Maltesi kept it in perfect condition. He slept in the Captain's quarters. He hadn't changed much in it since his father died except for the hammock he'd added at one side of the room. He slept better in one of those than in a bed. He'd practically grown up in one.

He was halfway up the gangplank before he noticed something wasn't right.

It was obviously fresh paint; the red letters dripped, which made it look like someone had written on the side of the ship in blood.

_Werkers of the docks unite! Ye have nothen to loose but yer chins!_

The spelling was too creative even for Maltesi's lads. It was clear whose people had done it.

Maltesi muttered something about "that effing Polk" and stomped up to the warehouse to look for a bucket and brush.

** oOo**

That effing Polk wasn't far away. He sat in his shipping office on the other side of the docks, a slice of apple pie with a scoop of vanilla ice cream on a plate in front of him. The ice cream was melting already because he wasn't eating very fast. Phineas Polk was listening.

The drab man across from him finally stopped talking.

"The Quantum Weather Book," said Polk.

The man nodded. It was Lester. He looked tired.

"You're sure?" asked Polk.

"Absolutely sure."

At least Lester had something to show for his long session with Syd. The skin on his face glowed. Syd's special exfoliating face mask. It had felt like being scrubbed with a hogs hair brush. Only after enduring that and various other beauty experiments did Lester get from Syd the map Maltesi and Lady Hanna bought.

Polk picked up his fork and took a thoughtful bite of pie. The fleet of the Polk Shipping Co. was larger than Maltesi's, but they shared a common problem of all sailors and shipping merchants: the weather. It was so darn unpredictable. The _in-sewer-ants_ costs of sending a shipload of anything were getting astronomical these days. Merchants wanted to be sure that a storm at sea wouldn't sink their merchandise. Who carried the most risk? Polk.

Maltesi as well, but Polk didn't mind him having difficulties. It was the reason for the guild idea. Competition. Free enterprise. They were always looking for an edge.

And now Maltesi appeared to have found one. It was said that the Quantum Weather Book, if it existed, laid out the rituals sailors could do to assure their ships had fine weather on any waterway in the world. If it worked, and if it got out that Maltesi's ships were protected, that would be the end of Polk.

He scooped up some ice cream and sucked it off his finger.

The book probably didn't exist. Half of Syd's maps were forgeries or frauds. Polk hadn't even thought of looking there. Maybe he should have.

No matter.

"Keep up the good work, Lester," he said. "From now on, we will refer to the item as 'the treasure.' I don't want word of it getting out." He took another swipe of ice cream. "Don't let Anthony and Lady Hanna out of your sight. If anything good comes, clacks me in Ankh-Morpork."

**oOo**

The guild system was evidence of the Patrician's genius, but there was one problem with encouraging members of various professions to band together in duly organized groups: _Everybody_ did it. These days, the guildless were considered either hopelessly stubborn asocials or hopelessly unemployable. And so when Lord Vetinari accepted his second cup of tea at the Inaugural Reception of the brand new Guild of Feline Maintenance (in charge of kibble, sparkly toys, claw pairing and litter box management), he got the impression that things may be getting out of hand. A tart, ammoniac smell wafted through the hall. Mysterious fluffs of fur bounced in the draft or rolled slowly out from under the tables. And there were, of course, cats. A dozen of them strutted through the crowd, sampled the refreshments or attempted to shred the curtains.

A fluffy white Klatchian Mau sauntered up and fixed the Patrician with a wide, green-eyed stare.

"Meow," she said.

The Patrician frowned, then moved toward a window to get some fresh air. The cat followed.

"Meow."

"The ham buns are over there," said the Patrician, waving his tea cup in the direction of the refreshments table.

The cat decided to make a pass at him. Her back arched, her head dipped and she leaned against his leg. Snuggly things happened. There was a festival of purring and the rubbing of white fur onto the Patrician's black robe. So much of it rubbed off that the Patrician was amazed the cat wasn't now bald. She sat at his feet and stared up at him with adoring, reflective eyes. The Patrician tried to push her away with a gentle nudge of his boot. Purring, she rubbed up against him again. He _was_ playing with her, wasn't he?

"I see Fanny likes you, yer lordship!" said Bedlow, the vice president of the guild, who came bustling up in a cloud of suspiciously muffy fumes. He was a cat litter specialist.

"A charming creature," said Lord Vetinari.

"Cats got minds of their own. They do what the want and us, we're lucky if they give us the time of day, ain't I right, little pooky cutie-kins?" Bedlow knelt and scratched Fanny's chin. Fanny rewarded him by butting her head against his knee.

"You do like cats, don't you, yer lordship?"

"I have a dog."

A sudden shocked silence settled over the reception. Everyone knew the Patrician had a dog, but the "d" word was not to be spoken at the guild.

Bedlow scooped Fanny up into his arms. "Well, yer lordship, some of us need a relationship with our companions based on dominance, and some of us prefer a relationship of _equals_." He hustled away holding Fanny as if saving her from the evil machinations of the dog-loving Patrician.

Lord Vetinari sighed and finished his tea and considered that this was the kind of thing Hanna was good at sorting out. She always turned up the charm just when the Patrician's patience at tedious social occasions began to flag. It was teamwork refined over two years.

He felt a pang of something he couldn't identify, a kind of sinking feeling that spread over his stomach.

He assumed it was the ham buns.


	7. The Brotherhood

**A-N**: Special hello to **Vilya** (waves). Stanwick Ghost, cool name, **Frosteh**. And thanks all for the reviews. Enough fluff for now. It's action we need!**oOo**

**7.** **The Brotherhood**

The landlord of the house on Minty Lane was a man who looked like he'd been put together by stacking several wine barrels and attaching the assorted limbs later. He had a large mustache. The tips drooped past his chin.

Hanna and Maltesi stood with him in an empty room. There wasn't a stick of furniture. Nothing on the walls. No carpets. It could have been a prison cell. A depressing place, but that wasn't why Hanna and Maltesi were looking disheartened.

"Sparks was a strange'un," said the landlord. "Wasn't surprised to hear the news."

He'd told them right when they asked about Daneloo Sparks, supposed owner of the second piece of the Hershebian chocolate treasure map.

Dead. The landlord spat the word out along with his chewing tobacco. Dead 24 hours. Rent was backed up so the landlord immediately confiscated everything left in Sparks' rooms, which wasn't much. A lot of strange pamphlets about the undead taking jobs away from the living, that sort of thing. No treasure maps. Even when Hanna offered a large sum of money for the half a map, the landlord shrugged and said he didn't have it.

He stroked his mustache. "Maybe he had it on him. He always had on one of those coats with a heap o' pockets. Didn't know what he was always carryin' around."

"Do you know where he is now?" asked Hanna.

"Graveyard."

Maltesi put a hand over his eyes.

"Probably got him laid out on a slab outside the Temple of Finna," said the landlord. "She takes in all the ones what can't pay."

Hanna and Maltesi left the house on Minty Lane and paused outside for a short consultation. Maltesi was the first to make his opinion clear.

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because I didn't get into this to go crawling around graveyards. If we'd have done this yesterday, maybe we would've caught him before he died."

"Could've, would've, maybe. We can't do anything about it now. I can't see how it hurts to go to the temple and ask the priests nicely if they emptied his pockets."

"Priestesses. And I'm not going." Maltesi folded his arms.

"Why not?"

"I said. And the priestesses of Finna are about as ornery as the goddess. It's like being around a temple full of mother-in-laws."

"Then we'll just take a look in the graveyard. He said they lay the bodies on slabs, right?"

"Vigil, in case anybody wants to visit the dearly departed."

"Well, there you go. He's waiting for us."

The graveyard of the Temple of Finna wasn't large. About a dozen stone slabs were laid out. Only one of them had a body on it. Actually, a cot with a thick carpet-looking shroud draped on a body-shaped thing that Hanna and Maltesi assumed was a body. The body of Daneloo Sparks.

Maltesi hung around in the background, his eyes roving to the door that led to the temple, and the little gate that led to the street. Everything was locked up for the evening. They'd shimmied over the wall, a moment when Maltesi had the interesting experience of being blinded by Hanna's skirts when he gave her a leg up.

"Hurry up," he whispered.

Hanna rubbed her hands. It was cold outside, but graveyards always had a special kind of extra cold. Something damp and penetrating. She shivered. The shroud over the body was a dark red landscape of bulges. It wasn't moving. Of course.

She reached out.

"Duck!" hissed Maltesi.

They both dropped to the ground just as one of the priestesses of the goddess Finna stepped out the temple door and relaxed against a stone column. She was a massive woman who looked like she could tuck one of the stone grave slabs under her arm if she wanted. She smoked a cigarette and gazed out over the yard.

A few minutes passed. Hanna was huddled up against Sparks' slab worrying about sneezing.

The priestess flicked the cigarette butt into the graveyard and disappeared in the temple.

"Right." Maltesi, a few feet away, waved at Hanna. "Get this over with."

She took a breath and lifted the shroud.

Daneloo Sparks looked too young to have died of a heart attack but Hanna was no medical expert. His face was a shade of blue white. He was nearly bald.

"Sorry about this," she whispered. She pulled the shroud down lower and was relieved to see he was still wearing his clothes. The jacket full of pockets that the landlord talked about. She swallowed and held her breath and reached into the right breast pocket.

"Get your stinking hands away from there."

Hanna let out a little scream and tumbled backwards into Maltesi.

Daneloo Sparks opened his eyes. They were a kind of milky, cataract blue. He blinked at the sky, then pulled himself up.

"Great," he said. "Just great. I'm dead, aren't I?" He addressed the question to Hanna, who was still shaking. She nodded.

Sparks swung his legs out from under the shroud. He pulled up the sleeve of his jacket and looked closely at the skin. It looked in need of a good moisturizer.

"Zombie," said Sparks. He rolled his eyes. "Do you know what I hate? Poetic justice. It's the worst justice there is. I work ten years for the rights of the living against the undead and now look. Bleeding cosmic irony."

He got off the slab and straightened his coat.

"I could probably rip your head off and eat your brains, seeing as I'm a zombie and you were trying to pick my pockets."

"Brain eating is a, er, cliche," said Maltesi. "You don't have to follow it just to fit in."

"I don't want to fit in. I want to be dead." Sparks looked angrily across the graveyard. "What am I supposed to do now? The League for the Living, of which I am vice president, isn't going to like this. I can't go home. I can't stay here. Those priestesses of Finna are like having a bunch of mothers-in-law around."

Hanna had recovered enough from the shock to think. "You could go to Ankh-Morpork."

"What for? It's overrun by the undead. A disgrace to our species."

"I wouldn't say it's overrun, but... Look, the undead are very politicized there. They have something called the Fresh Start Club. It helps newly, um, changed people get back on their feet and cope with a new life after death." She thought a moment. "I think that's what the marketing literature said."

Sparks drew himself up. "Me? Ally myself with the undead? Never!" He pierced the air with a demonstrative finger. Which wobbled, then flapped backward. It hung from his hand on a bit of skin. Sparks tried to fit it back on. It flopped over again.

"They can help with that too," said Hanna. "Sewing and so on."

The bravado faded from Sparks' face. "I don't want my limbs to fall off."

"I think they can be sewed back on," Hanna assured him.

Sparks sighed and nodded. But carefully. He was afraid the next thing to fall off would be his head.

"Maybe I'll check the place out. Fresh Start, you said?"

"If you go to Watch Headquarters, that's at Pseudopolis Yard, ask for Reg Shoe. He'll fix you up."

"Maybe I can hitch a ride." Sparks wriggled his thumbs to be sure they could be used without incident.

Maltesi cleared his throat. "Glad we got that sorted. Maybe you could help us out. We were interested in the half a treasure map you have."

"_Had_," said Sparks.

Hanna and Maltesi exchanged glances.

"Where is it now?"

"I gave it to my brothers."

"Where are they?"

"Be here any moment now, I reckon. They probably want to pick up my body for sacrifice."

_Those_ kind of brothers, Hanna was thinking. She imagined some secret priesthood. The world was full of little sects that worshipped obscure little gods or ideas or just wanted an excuse to get together and drink beer in an atmosphere of holy contemplation.

"Women aren't allowed, so you might want to hide when they come around," said Sparks. He looked at Maltesi. "And they don't like strangers. You might want to hide too."

"But where would they keep the--"

"Ssshhhh!" Sparks put his nose up. "I hear them all right. I can't let them see me like this. The shame of it! The shame!"

He sprinted to a shadowy corner and jumped up and over the graveyard wall. Noises started up outside. Shuffling feet, the rustle of robes, low, bickering voices.

_I told you we should've done it earlier._

_We had to have dinner first. Do you like cold dinner?_

_Mum could have left it in the oven for us. It was just a casserole._

_You got to eat it fresh._

Maltesi took Hanna's arm.

"We have to hide."

There weren't many options. The stone slabs around the courtyard weren't that big. There weren't many trees. Maltesi pointed to a slab in the shadows in the far corner.

"Come on, we can--"

The door to the temple of Finna opened. Hanna and Maltesi dropped to the ground again. The same priestess as before, obviously a problem smoker, lit up again. The noises on the other side of the wall stopped until she was done and was back inside. Then they started up, right on the other side of the wall. Hanna and Maltesi could hear shoes scraping on the stone.

Hanna pulled herself out of Maltesi's hands, threw herself onto the slab vacated by Sparks and pulled the shroud over her. It smelled muffy, but not as bad as she'd feared.

Maltesi pulled it back.

"Are you insane?"

"I need that map."

There was bickering again at the wall.

_Oof! I need a better leg up._

_Why do you always get to go first?_

_Because I'm the leader of the team. The Grand Moony sent me._

_He sent us. _

_Oh, come on._

A hand slapped over the top of the wall. Maltesi pushed down the creative curses he really wanted to be saying right then and scrambled into the shadows.

Two men in rough black robes with large cowls dropped into the graveyard. They paused to look around. Then one of the men whistled. There was an answering whistle on the other side of the wall. Ropes were lowered over.

"Good," he whispered. "We'll take old Sparky and that's that. Easy as roast beef."

"Easy as pie," said his companion.

"Whatever. You take the feet."

They lifted the cot.

"He's lighter than he looked, eh?" said the second brother.

They bundled Hanna and the shroud to the cot and attached it to the ropes. Brothers on the other side of the wall lifted everything over.

Maltesi was having a crisis in his shadowy corner. Every bit of him wanted to rush at the men and get Hanna back, but she was the one who climbed on the slab to begin with. Whatever happened, she deserved it.

The cowled men prepared to hoist themselves back over the wall.

"I'm hungry," said the second brother.

"We just had dinner."

"Brother Rupert kept stealing off my plate."

"All right, all right. But after the sacrifice. These things have to be done right."

The leader was lifted onto the wall. He paused in the moonlight.

"Off to the sanctuary, brothers!"

Maltesi gritted his teeth and grunted over his part of the wall. Dried out vines and creepers made it hard to be stealthy, but the brothers didn't seem to notice. They carried Hanna away.

Maltesi followed. In his mind he was still cursing meddling seamstresses and Hershebian chocolate and contraband weapons and life in general.

**oOo**

In the Palace of Ankh-Morpork, the Patrician accepted the clacks from his clerk Drumknott and read it while finishing up his dinner. Drumknott hovered with files in his arms.

"I trust Lady Hanna is enjoying her holiday," he said.

"My aunt seems to think so. She mentions walks in the open air, relaxing evenings at home and heart-to-heart talks." He set the message aside. "Holidays are important. It is refreshing to see new places, new faces, that sort of thing. You know how it is."

He was looking thoughtfully into space. Maltesi. Maltesi. No, he didn't recognize the name. It was nowhere in the card catalogue of his mind.

Until now.

Drumknott cleared his throat.

"Actually, I don't, milord. I've never had one."

"Hm?"

"A holiday, sir. I've never had one."

"You were gone several days once, I seem to remember."

"My father died, milord. That was four years ago."

"Ah." There was a pause. "I did give my condolences at the time, I assume."

"Yes, milord."

"Good. Good. I would not want it to be known that I was insensitive."

The Patrician's mind was elsewhere, as it usually was. He stroked his beard and considered that having someone on the ground in Pseudopolis was, perhaps, not an unwise thing. Out of respect for Hanna, he hadn't put her under surveillance. He assumed his aunt would handle that.

But things appeared to be taking an interesting turn. Madam gave only one sentence about this Anthony Maltesi in her message.

Showing Hanna the maritime side of the city. _Indeed_.

"Send a clacks to Griffin," said the Patrician. "Tell him to keep an eye on Mr. Anthony Maltesi, a shipping director in Pseudopolis. I want daily reports."

**oOo**

In the Holy Sanctuary, the Grand Moony spread his arms wide and addressed the assembled brotherhood around the altar.

"The time has come, brothers, to show our dedication to our Lord, the Defender of the Living, the Accursed of the Undead..." He threw back his head and gave a messianic stare at the low ceiling. "...the God LENNY!"

The Brothers of Lenny twittered in the torch light.

"Ravager of nations!"

The brothers nodded.

"Scourge of the Good!"

There were some "here-here's."

"Enemy of the Undead!"

The Grand Moony's arms descended. He was a middle aged man with a protruding chin and bushy eye brows. He had what looked like a deflated sheep's stomach on his head. A smiley face was painted on the front and back of his robe. By the time the God Lenny got around to getting a symbol, most of the really terrifying ones were taken.

A stairway in a corner of the Holy Sanctuary led up to a door. The door led to a large and cozy kitchen. The sweet smell of baking cookies hung in the air. A thin little old woman with a polka dot apron hefted her spatula at the man who'd barged -- rather politely, but it was still barging if he wasn't invited -- into her kitchen.

"If I says it once, I says it a hundred times," she said, "You got to be on time. I ain't a doorman and my kitchen ain't the Rimward Road. If ye want to belong to the sect you got to be on time."

She glared at Maltesi.

"And ye forgot yer robe, didn't ye? How many times do I have to remind the boys not to forget their robes?" She shook her head and hustled to the walk-in pantry. "This is the last time. I won't have it anymore. If one more of ye come in here late with no robe, I'm sending ye back into the streets. This is a respectable kitchen."

She emerged with a black robe that she shoved at Maltesi.

"Git on down there. Yer probably missing the whole thing. And don't be coming to complain to Mum if you do."

The plan of action from Maltesi's perspective had involved a stealthy entrance into the brotherhood's headquarters -- which appeared on the outside to be a cottage with obscene weather vanes stuck in the front lawn – and a stealthy entrance to the Holy Sanctuary, where he would save Hanna whether she liked it or not.

He hadn't counted on Mum.

He shimmied into the robe while Mum fussed around him, tying the cord a tad too tight, positioning the hood, slapping off some invisible dirt on the shoulder.

"There ye go. Now git on down there. Tell my boy his Mum'll be down with the milk and cookies quick as pie."

She hustled back to the oven.

Maltesi eased down the stairs. The last step groaned loudly.

The assembled brotherhood turned to stare at him. The Grand Moony was frowning.

"Er..." Maltesi bowed his head in hopes that his cowl was big enough to hide his face. "Mum says she'll be down with the milk and cookies."

There was a moment of silence.

Then one of the brothers said, "Did she say what kind? She promised oatmeal tonight. The kind with the big fat raisins."

"It smelled like oatmeal."

The brothers sighed happily. Mum made great oatmeal cookies.

When the Grand Moony went back to preaching, Maltesi dared to raise his head. The Holy Sanctuary was obviously a potato cellar. A spacious one, yes, but it's true use was obvious by the mound of potatoes scooped up in a corner. There was the earthy smell of worms and slowly rotting organic substances.

A dozen robed brothers gathered on one side of what was obviously the altar, but which was apparently once used as some kind of work table. The cot was laid out on it, and the thick shroud. And Hanna underneath.

Maltesi hung in back but strained to see her. She wasn't moving, but it also didn't look like the sacrifice had happened yet.

The Grand Moony had a knife in his hand.

"We are gathered here to make the sacrifice of our dear departed Brother Daneloo to the Lord Lester, as is the custom of our holy community. As the living are sacrificed to gods of the dead, so are the dead sacrificed to a god that respects only the rights of living people against the insidious machinations of the undead."

He closed his eyes.

"A prayer to Lord Lester. Oh, Lord, who art righteous in the things that we want you to be righteous about, who smites those we want to be smitten, who--"

"Here they are, boys! Piping hot and fresh!"

Mum descended the stairs with a large tray piled with cookies and a pitcher of milk.

The Grand Moony glowered.

"Mum! We were in the middle of a very important prayer."

"Tosh! There's always time for hot cookies, eh?"

Some of the brothers moved toward her.

"We have to finish," insisted the Grand Moony.

Mum stomped up to the altar, set the tray on Hanna's stomach and pinched the Grand Moony's cheek. "You're so cute when yer being a leader of the brotherhood. But ye got to take a break sometimes. Have a bite and then you'll all be fresh for the sacrifice, eh?" She held up a cookie. "Have just one. Fer yer old Mum."

The Grand Moony frowned.

"Later."

She frowned back. "Suit yerself. They'll be upstairs getting cold while yer down here with yer nonsense."

"It's not nonsense, Mum! It's important holy business!"

"Hmmph." Mum lifted the tray and went back to the stairs, muttering. "Slave away over a hot stove and look at the thanks I get! Important holy business. Hmmph!" She slammed the door behind her.

The Grand Moony got on with the prayer. It lasted a good ten minutes. The brothers got fidgety and thought of the cookies cooling upstairs. Maltesi eased along the wall toward Hanna.

"And so we come to the sacrifice itself," the Grand Moony announced. He reached into his robe and whipped out a knife.

The brothers whispered excitedly.

Formulas were spoken. Some more prayers. The knife was blessed and dunked in salt water, which was only going to make things worse for Hanna.

"So!" cried the Grand Moony as he brandished the knife. "It begins with--"

"Er, sir?" Maltesi raised his hand.

"What? I'm in the middle of a sacrifice, here."

"Why do we have to do it in here? Wouldn't it be nicer outside somewhere? In the open air?"

There was muttering. The Grand Moony frowned.

"We always do it in here."

"I know," said Maltesi. "But maybe it'd be nice to do it different this time. At a holy hill, for instance. You know. Moonlight and stars and the wind and...stuff."

The brothers considered this. The potato cellar was a bit cramped. And the idea of a sacrifice in the moonlight, well, it would certainly be more dramatic.

"There is a Holy Hill right outside of town," said one of the brothers.

"That wacko group that worships the Disc, or something, they're usually there."

"What are the odds they're there tonight?"

"I still think it's a bad idea."

The Grand Moony lowered the knife.

"We'll do a vote. Raise your hand if you want to do the ritual at the Holy Hill."

Maltesi raised his hand. He had no idea where the Holy Hill was, but he was all for getting Hanna out of the cellar. Escape possibilities would be better. Most of the other brothers raised their hands too.

Sighing, the Grand Moony tucked the knife away and nodded at Maltesi. "Brother, go tell Mum to pack those cookies to go."

Upstairs, Maltesi delivered the message and Mum got started wrapping up the cookies.

"Ye look down in the dumps, boy. What's wrong? My son won't let ye have a go with the knife?"

"It's not that."

"Jock itch? I got ointment for that."

"Not that either." Maltesi pushed back his hood and sighed. "There's too many things to talk about."

Mum got a transportable pitcher and poured milk into it. "Pick one, then."

Maltesi watched her stomp around the kitchen getting things together and thought, what the hell.

"I'm a weapons smuggler conned into helping a seamstress find a treasure, but the guy with the other half of the map is dead and I don't know which of the brothers has it now."

He considered saying something about the seamstress being about to end up as a sacrifice under the knife of Mum's son, but he left it.

Mum tucked a towel over the cookie basket, went to a kitchen drawer, pulled something out and handed it to Maltesi.

"Found it in my son's room. The bad boy. I don't want him messing with that kind of thing. Bad enough he smokes behind the wood pile and thinks I don't know."

Maltesi stared at the second half of the Hershebian chocolate treasure map. He let out a whoop and scooped Mum up in his arms.

She grinned. "Yer all good boys at heart, eh?"

The door opened and the brothers started filing out, their heads bowed, hands folded. They passed with an "Evening, Mum" out of the house. Four brothers carried Hanna on the cot. Maltesi took up the cookie basket and milk and hustled after the brothers out into the night.


	8. Mingling

**A-N**: Thanks to all reviewers and lurkers, as always. The story continues! **oOo**

8. **Mingling**

The Holy Hill was just rimwards of town. There were hills all over the place, but this one had a circle of upright stones that looked like a few trolls had purposefully arranged them as some kind of astronomical clock a millennium ago. In the center of the circle was a convenient horizontal stone slab. Prime altar material.

The Brotherhood of Lenny were arrayed in a circle around Hanna again. All agreed that the moonlight and the stones made everything a lot more, well, holy. The potato cellar couldn't hold a candle to it. Even the torches looked more religious, what with the fire flickering in the breeze.

The Grand Moony was so pleased by the change of venue that he named Maltesi (Brother Anthony) to be his assistant for the sacrifice. He stood next to the altar, the map tucked into his pocket, and tried to form a plan. Something along the lines of snatching the knife out of the Grand Moony's hand at the operative moment and using it as a threatening weapon until he and Hanna could make a run for it.

The formulas were said again. There were chants. The Grand Moony spread his arms to the moonlight.

"Oh, Lord Lenny! We honour you in the open air! We give this sacrifice in the knowledge that you will do us the--"

"Hey!" The angry voice wafted up from the side of the hill. "This is _our _spot!"

A clutch of people dressed in white robes stomped into the stone circle. Wreaths of flowers sat on their heads. Leafy vines dangled from their hemp belts. Silver jewelry flashed in the starlight.

The Grand Moony lowered his arms.

"We were here first!"

More of the white robed people appeared. They surrounded the brotherhood like an angry ring of oversized fairies. One of them stepped forward. She was a priestess with flowers knotted in hair that looked like it hadn't seen a comb or a pair of scissors in years.

"This is the gathering place for the worshippers of Eartha, goddess of the Disc," she said. "Why do you trespass here?"

"We aren't trespassing," said the Grand Moony. "This is a public hill."

"This Holy Hill belongs to Eartha."

"No, it doesn't. I don't see a sign that says: No trespassing. Private Property."

The priestess looked uncomfortable. "We've been meaning to put one up."

"Well, you haven't yet." The Grand Moony looked triumphant. "Brothers! We will proceed with the sacrifice!"

The priestess grabbed his arm. "No you won't. There won't be sacrifices to any other gods here."

One of the white robed people edged over to the cookie basket that sat on a small stone table. He lifted the towel, looked around, and took a cookie.

One of the brothers pointed at him. "He stole one of the holy cookies!"

"Er... I was just..."

Who threw the first punch wasn't clear, but within 60 seconds, black and white robes collided on the Holy Hill, fists flying. Not many sectarian battles began over a stolen baked good, but it was as good a reason as any.

Maltesi ducked behind the altar.

"Hanna," he whispered. "I got the map."

"Oh, gods," she moaned.

"What is it?"

"I've had to go to the loo the past hour."

"All right. Just hold it a while longer." He peaked over the altar. The sects were still fighting it out. He loosened the shroud. "Run!"

He pulled her off the altar, she untangled herself from the shroud and they sprinted out of the circle. And then they made a small mistake. They looked behind them to see if anyone was following.

That meant they didn't see the large, dark hole behind a boulder and a clump of bushes just over the crest of the hill.

Hanna was the first to fall in with a surprised scream. She scrambled out of the way in time to miss being crushed by Maltesi, who fell in right after her.

It was a deep hole. Even if Maltesi gave Hanna a leg up, she wasn't going to reach the ground above. He took off the black robe and tried to use his cord as some kind of rope but it was too thin and didn't reach.

He threw it on the ground.

"Did I tell you I've had enough for one night?"

Hanna was hopping in place.

"It wasn't the smartest thing to do, but we have the map now, don't we?"

He patted his pocket. It was still there.

"Aye, we have it."

She let out a relieved sigh and then scampered away into a passage that led off into the darkness.

"Where are you going?" shouted Maltesi.

Hanna found a dark and secluded spot for the business with the bladder. Finished, she was able to look at her surroundings with less of a sense of urgency.

There wasn't much to see. It was completely dark. She couldn't see her hand in front of her face.

"Mr. Maltesi?" she called.

She wandered further down the corridor, her hands on the walls. They were hard dirt and had knobby roots sticking out.

"Mr. Maltesi?"

He was groping around in the passage too.

"Where are you?" he called, knowing full well that it was a brilliant question in a pitch black underground tunnel.

"I'm here," said Hanna. "I'm not moving anymore. I'll just keep talking till you find me, all right? Follow my voice. Um...I don't know what to say. I'm exhausted. I've never been almost sacrificed before. That was really stupid of me to do, you're completely right about that. And, I'm sorry I got you into this."

"Me too."

He was right behind her. She found his hand and they continued down the passage together, step by step.

It was slow going. Hanna felt her mind drifting. Walking in total darkness cut off the senses. Sound was dampened. She could feel the dirt wall with one hand and Maltesi's fingers with the other but that was it. Once or twice she snapped awake, and it was the only way she knew she'd been dozing on her feet.

"We have to stop."

"We're going downhill. Maybe we'll hit town if we keep going."

Hanna leaned against the wall, then slid to the ground. "Maybe just a rest then. Short." She closed her eyes and listened to Maltesi settling down beside her.

**oOo**

Ankh-Morpork, the Big Wahoonie, the economic, political and cultural center of the Disc – according to 98 percent of Morporkians. The rest of the world had different opinions about that, but what forn parts thought wasn't relevant to the average Morporkian.

It was to Lord Vetinari. As Patrician, he was the one little stone on the top of a classical arch that created the equilibrium that allowed the rest of the stones to carry each other's weight without collapsing.

The stone metaphor was an apt one. It's how his face was looking now as he sat at his desk in the Oblong Office, his fingertips pressed together. He was listening. Intently.

He'd been listening intently to his visitor for fifteen minutes without comment. What he was hearing was far too interesting to say anything.

His visitor wore gray. He _was_ gray. Gray hair perfectly creamed down on his head, gray eyes, a gray moustache, a gray tie and a gray suit. He wasn't a zombie or a ghost but he had a sort of undead flair about him.

It was Phineas Polk, owner of Polk Shipping of Pseudopolis, Ankh-Morpork, Al-Khali, Genua etc. His was one of the fastest growing fleets in the world. But he hadn't come to the Oblong Office to talk about ships.

"...and the latest episode is the most alarming, your lordship," said Polk. "I received word that Lady Hanna was seen with Mr. Maltesi at the most disreputable location of all. The Bath House of Pseudopolis, a notorious center of lurid goings-on. They apparently shared the sauna. Alone."

Polk fanned himself with his bowler hat.

"I can not stress to you enough how upset this has made me. Lady Hanna is of course known throughout the world as your valued companion. The last thing a friend of Ankh-Morpork wants to see is this good lady fall into the clutches of a man like Anthony Maltesi. He is a smuggler, a privateer and a notorious rake. I thought it my duty to alert you to Lady Hanna's connection with this unsavory character."

Lord Vetinari waited. He was a waiting sort of man, brimming with patience. He steepled his fingers and leaned back in his chair and fixed his patient gaze on Polk. And waited.

Polk seemed to know the trick. He crossed his legs and stared back.

Five minutes passed in silence.

Then Drumknott slipped into the office, set a file in front of Lord Vetinari and slipped out without a word. The Patrician skimmed through the papers, closed the file and looked up.

"You appear to be well informed, Mr. Polk."

"It is necessary in my line of work, your lordship."

"I am always pleased to meet a true friend of Ankh-Morpork, especially one brave enough to deliver such difficult news."

Polk dipped his head modestly.

"Unfortunately," said the Patrician, folding his hands on the file, "your journey here was unnecessary. Lady Hanna is on holiday. The company she chooses to keep while away is her business, not mine."

"But surely, your lordship, you care if she traffics with such a cad as--"

The Patrician held up a hand.

"I have heard your opinion of Mr. Maltesi already, Mr. Polk. Yet I must remind you that I do not keep Lady Hanna on a tether. She may meet with whomever she wishes in whatever places she wishes."

"You don't intend to do anything about it, then?" asked Polk.

Lord Vetinari lifted an eyebrow. "Whyever should I?"

Polk opened the briefcase at the foot of his chair and took a paper he found in it up to the desk. It was a clacks image based on an iconograph of Hanna and Maltesi leaving the Pseudopolis Bath House. Their hair was in disarray and their clothing was haphazard.

The Patrician glanced at it.

"Mr. Maltesi looks like a lively gentleman." He pushed the paper back across his desk.

Polk left it there.

"There are others, your lordship," he said carefully.

The Patrician was silent.

"I believe," said Polk, "that in light of the public's interest in Lady Hanna and yourself, there would be an interest in printing these images in the newspapers."

"I admit she is a charming lady," said Lord Vetinari calmly, "but I have yet to see anything here that anyone would care to look at."

Polk set a second image on the desk.

Inside the bath house. Hanna had her back turned but she was clearly nude. Maltesi was in the foreground on the point of removing his underpants.

The Patrician stared at it for a full minute. Polk closed his briefcase with a snap.

"Newspapers are just one option, your lordship. There are certain _foreign interests_ open to acquiring these images. To protect Lady Hanna from scandal, of course."

A tight little smile flashed behind Vetinari's steepled fingers.

"The good name of Lady Hanna should not be besmirched by that rogue Maltesi, your lordship. He must be stopped. I don't wish to do it by making these images public or passing them on to foreign interests, but if you choose not to undertake something quietly, I'm afraid I'll have no choice."

"You are touchingly concerned with Lady Hanna's good name, Mr. Polk."

"And yours, your lordship." Polk put on his hat. "My only concern is for continuing good relations with Ankh-Morpork."

After Polk left, Lord Vetinari wrote two short notes, then whistled into the dragon-shaped mouthpiece on a hook near his desk. It was connected to a tube that was connected to the desk of Drumknott. He appeared a moment later.

The Patrician handed him the notes. "Both urgent. And I want more about Phineas Polk."

Lord Vetinari opened the file again and settled back.

A minute passed.

"Drumknott?"

"Yes, milord."

"I suggest you insert your eyeballs back into your head and go send those clacks."

The clerk blinked and tore himself away from the nude image of Hanna.

"Yes, milord."

When he was alone, the Patrician slapped the file onto his desk, and went to the window.

He wasn't angry. More...irritated. At the general situation, of course, not at Hanna. He'd told Polk the truth about that. Who she chose to mingle with while on holiday was her business.

Though of course...

His frown deepened.

...there was mingling and there was _mingling_.

**oOo**

The tunnel ended, surprisingly enough, at a door. It was so dark that they didn't know they were at the end until Maltesi knocked into the wood.

"Shi-- crap," he said, rubbing his forehead.

They had no idea how long they'd slept, or what time it was, or if the sun was already up in the outside world. They only knew that they were hungry and cold and badly in need of a bath, a few hours of quiet and maybe a nice soothing cognac. To pass the time as they walked, they talked about that. What they'd do when they got out of the tunnel. A long, hot bath was first on Hanna's list. Maltesi was for a large glass of something as alcoholic as possible. The map needed to be examined in its entirety, yes, but that could wait.

Hanna felt the wooden door with her hands and found a handle. It turned.

Relieved, they stumbled into the room beyond.

The candlelight was a shock. At first, they could only make out a half dozen blotchy figures in front of them that gleamed here and there.

When their eyes adjusted, the half dozen armed and angry-looking dwarves became perfectly clear.

Maltesi wasn't going to hold back in front of Hanna anymore as per the _Rude Words Not to Be Said in Front of a Lady_ list as outlined in the _Gentleman's Guide to Pseudopolian Etiquette_.

"Shit," he said. "Great heaping masses of stinking shit."

The dwarves raised their axes.

Maltesi turned on Hanna.

"Can things really get worse? I was wondering that when you were about to be sacrificed to a god named Lenny, and I wondered that all through that blasted tunnel. And looky here." He waved at the dwarves, who were looking at each other with slight confusion. Usually people acted more scared of their brandished battle axes. "Now we've got friendly dwarves ready to chop off our heads."

"Stop complaining," said Hanna. "It's not helping."

"I'm not being positive enough for you? Should I look on the bright side of things? We're already underground; nobody'll need to bury us after we've been chopped to bits."

"They aren't going to chop us to bits." Hanna addressed what looked like the head dwarf because he was a head taller than the others. "Are you going to chop us to bits?"

"Well, actually..."

Maltesi pointed. "See? We're doomed. I never thought I'd ever say those words. I'm not that pessimistic normally. But I think in a cellar surrounded by six dwarves with sharp axes and a long dark tunnel at our backs, that we are, in fact, doomed."

Hanna folded her arms. "You're cranky because you're hungry and sleepy."

Maltesi's mouth dropped open. He looked at the six dwarves. Their battle stance was a lot less threatening now.

"_Cranky?_ Cranky, am I? No, I can't possibly be looking the situation in the face and accepting it for what it is." He rubbed his face. "Bloody women. I'm through with them. I'm through with all of you. I'd rather be a monk! I'd rather shack up with Syd!"

It was fatigue. Hanna knew it was. Otherwise, she wouldn't have ever started laughing in face of the obvious danger that surrounded them. She laughed long and helplessly until she was crying into her hands.

Maltesi's anger drained away. It never stayed long. At first he was ticked about her laughter but then it caught him and he was doing it too, cracking up like he'd just heard the funniest joke ever told.

Soon, the dwarves lowered their axes and joined in. They liked a good laugh as well as anyone, even if they didn't quite know what they were laughing about.

Finally, Hanna wiped her eyes and let the last few chuckles die away.

"I know we're in your cellar," she said to the dwarves, "and we're trespassing and all, but can you just let us go? We didn't mean to be here. We just want to go home."

The head dwarf shrugged.

"We were going to kill you for discovering our secret escape tunnel but that laugh was really cathartic, wasn't it, lads?"

The other dwarves grinned and nodded.

"We're feeling pretty good right now so we'll let you live."

Hanna and Maltesi smiled at each other. Luck seemed to be reversing direction at lightning speed.

The head dwarf led them up the steps. "You want lunch before you go? You look like you haven't eaten in days. We aren't just the best dwarf thieves in Pseudopolis, we also cook a mean spaghetti al forno."

That was no lie. Hanna and Maltesi left the thieves' hideout stuffed with the best spaghetti they'd ever had. The thieves were a lively lot. All through lunch they told stories about their escapades. They even stole off of one of Maltesi's ships, but he didn't say who he was. He did suggest that the security on ships owned by a certain Phineas Polk didn't look too tight. The dwarves would be welcome to practice their art on any of them. They thanked him for the tip and waved goodbye from the doorstep.

For Maltesi a day had been lost at work and in the planning for his father's Deathday Party, scheduled for the next evening. He asked Hanna if the continuation of the treasure hunt couldn't wait a couple days.

"All right," she said. "But not too long."

"I just need time to get over the hangover." He smiled at her, wished her a nice day and took off down the street.

She stood there and wondered if she'd been very pointedly _not_ invited to the party.


	9. See the Stars

**9. See the Stars**

"Hanna!"

Madam seemed to forget her pain and threw her arms around Hanna as soon as she stepped into the Awfully Orange Drawing Room.

"I was about to clacks Havelock that I'd lost you! Where have you been? You look terrible. My gods, it must have been awful. Cecil! Champagne!"

Hanna wove together a tale of half-truths because she was talking to Vetinari's aunt, and she assumed it was just as hard to lie openly to her as it was to the Patrician. There was something about an innocent tour of the Temple of Finna, being mistaken for someone else by a sect of cookie-eating brothers, hauled to the Holy Hill where a battle between faiths was fought, while she escaped in a tunnel that led to the cellar of a band of dwarf thieves who fed her spaghetti.

She didn't mention Maltesi or the treasure.

"That's about all of it," said Hanna. "I'm dying to sit back in the tub with a good book."

"Well." Madam let out a long sigh of relief. "At least you're back. I don't know what I would have written to my nephew. How does one start that kind of note? My dear nephew, I have unsettling news. Your lamb is missing and I have no idea how to find her. That wouldn't do at all, would it?"

"He knows I'd turn up."

"I'm sure. You know one another so well."

Hanna snorted into her pink kitten mug. She doubted anyone knew Vetinari well. She imagined him like those nested dolls. When one was opened, there was always another closed one inside, all the way to the tiny, little core that couldn't be opened.

There were more straightforward men in the world. Maltesi, for instance. With his temper tantrums and resentment and bravery and...Well, he seemed to be a man a girl could rely on when the chips were down. A man of action. She remembered the look on his face when Mac Dibble told him to strip outside the sauna, and started giggling. She stopped when she noticed Madam staring at her.

"You have a certain smile, my dear."

"It's just a smile."

"No, a very particular one." A frown passed over Madam's face, but she softened it. "I'm so relieved you're back. Havelock would have been frantic about finding you."

"He doesn't get frantic about anything."

"He wouldn't run around shouting and waving his arms but he would turn over every stone in Pseudopolis looking for you. Don't you know that?"

Hanna shrugged.

"Well, why don't you go have your bath. Cecil will draw it for you. All the good books in the house are in my study. Take anything you want."

While Cecil got the bath water heated, Hanna dragged herself up to Madam's study. Book cases lined one wall, and the books themselves were organized alphabetically. There were book marks and scraps of paper and folded notes sticking out of almost all of them. It was obviously a working library where the owner didn't have the books there just for show. She didn't know what she felt like reading. History maybe.

She ran her finger along the spines until she touched a book that didn't look quite like the others. No book marks. There wasn't anything on the spine, which wasn't unusual for the older books, so she pulled it out and opened it.

A history of Uberwald. Hanna's ancestors came from there, so the book was a good possibility. She started browsing through it until she came to a dead end.

After page 100, a kind of compartment had been cut out of the rest of the book. The remaining pages framed a space big enough to hold letter-sized papers.

She set the book on Madam's desk and unfolded the top letter. There was no seal and nothing else to show it had ever been sent. At the top was a date. A month ago. And it began:

_My dear Margolotta..._

Hanna read it through. By the end, she was having trouble breathing. She set the letter aside and took the second one out of the book. Dated a couple weeks earlier than the first.

_My dear Margolotta..._

She looked at the third and fourth, and tore through to the bottom of the false book, a dozen letters. They weren't in the Patrician's handwriting, though the signature at the bottom was very close. The syntax and word choice were Vetinari's without a doubt. It looked like someone had rapidly copied the original letters verbatim.

She went back to the beginning and read them, most recent to the oldest, which was dated ten months before. Phrases caught her, parts of sentences that contained her name, or the word seamstress.

_...a rather foolish girl, far too young, and it shows in her immaturity and her recklessness. I have tried to temper this but she will not be taught..._

_ ...valued as a seamstress, of course, but her usefulness in important matters is severely hindered by her mediocre judgment and intellectual inadequacies..._

_ ...so that I have been forced to regard her as something of a social project. It is the old question of nature and nurture. Can a woman with her numerous failings, whether from birth, ability or circumstance, be improved by my example? I confess that the experiment so far has had only limited success..._

Hanna replaced the letters and put the book back where she'd got it and wandered into the bath room. The tub stood ready, filled and steaming hot. She undressed without thinking and climbed in without testing the water.

She thought of Madam. It was obvious she had spies on the Palace staff, people to rifle the wastebaskets or save anything he wanted burned in the grate or copy his private mail before it was sent. Spies on her own nephew. And how nice of her to place copies of letters like that in a book Hanna was likely to look in. They weren't forgeries. There was no attempt to imitate Vetinari's handwriting. They were copies, Hanna was sure of it.

She pressed her toes against the edge of the bath tub and tried to breath through the heat and steam and the feeling she was going to faint from lack of air. She knew she wasn't brilliant, she wasn't an evil genius or a cunning plotter. She was sometimes foolish and childish and reckless, she was sometimes dim. She was just a _person_.

Maltesi was surprised when she showed up at his office that evening. There was something about the look on her face that made him set aside his work and against his better judgment take her to his favorite bar. It was a large, smoky cellar filled with muttering, inebriated patrons and muted torch light, where a quartet made up of bass, guitar, drums and flute returned from its break accompanied by a man who had the blues written all over him. The cellar was called the Clinical Diagnosis, or just the Clinic for short. Small drinks in clear glasses were served, and that was a tip as to the concentration of alcohol they contained. When asked by spouses or friends where they were going, regular visitors to the cellar thought it looked good to say, "I'm goin' to the Clinic." It sounded important. It sounded like doctors and rules of hygiene rather than alcohol was involved. Considering that most medicines on the Discworld were at least 40 proof, naming a pub after a medical establishment wasn't that far from the truth.

The blues man was named Theodor Richelieu La Grange. These days he went by the name Swamp Man Ted. He was over sixty and was wearing a suit a size too big for him and a slouch hat. He had a harmonica in his hand and had the patient look of a grizzly bear fresh out of hibernation. The lines in his face could tell stories involving galley slaves and privateering on the open seas and wrestling crocs that had stolen his last andouille in his home town of Genua.

"He was one of your father's crew?" whispered Hanna.

"The captain sailed for 40 years," said Maltesi. "Everybody was on his crew."

It was interesting to Hanna that he referred to his own father as "the captain." She took another drink of rum and listened.

"Only one kind o' man can sing the blues," said Swamp Man Ted, his Genuese accent exaggerated for theatrical purposes. "And that's a man who's loved a woman."

A few people in the audience muttered.

"Loved her to the depth o' his soul."

There was a repetition of the word _soul_ around the club.

"Loved her with his mind and heart mo' than he loved hisself."

_Yeah!_ answered a few people.

"Loved her in the mornin'..."

_Yeah!_

"Loved her in the deep, deep night..."

_Yeah!_

"Loved her on a Tuesday..."

_Yeah!_

"Loved her on a Sunday till the sweet, sweet gods was jealous."

_Yeah!_

Swamp Man Ted nodded sagely, his black gaze roving over the faces in the audience like a preacher taking in the enthusiasm of the congregation. He stopped at Maltesi and Hanna. He winked, then gave the low ceiling a messianic stare.

"When a man's loved a woman like that, that don't make him a blues man."

_No, it don't!_ someone said.

"No, laws, it don't." Swamp Man Ted's voice dropped. "That man who's loved from the tip o' his head to the nails on his toes can't be a blues man till somethin' happens."

_What?_

"You know what happens?" he prompted.

_What?_

"I say, you know what happens?"

_What?!_

"That man come home after a hard day workin' his fingers to the bone."

_Yes, laws!_

"And he sit at his table and the woman he loves from the depth o' his soul set a plate o' sweet potato pie in front of him."

_Yes, she does!_

"And that man, he dig in, he lift that fork."

_Yeah!_

"And he bite down."

_Yes, he does!_

"And that man who loves that woman from the depth o' his soul, he learn at last..."

_What's he learn?_

"I say, that man who loves a woman, he learn at _last_!"

_What's he learn?_ shouted the audience.

Swamp Man Ted readied his harmonica.

"He learn at last that she cook like shit."

Laughter erupted in the Clinic.

"Only then is that man a blues man," said Swamp Man Ted. "And fo' that man, I wrote this song."

He nodded at the quartet, which started up a lumbering beat, and he sang in a voice pitched to blues perfection by years of cigarette and whiskey abuse:

My sweet wo-man She cook like shit

Swamp Man Ted played a short harmonica riff.

_My sweet wo-man_

_She cook like shit_

Harmonica again.

_How do I tell my wo-man_

_I cain't handle it._

Hanna was gasping for air and wiping a handkerchief across her eyes and trying to stop laughing but the power and majesty of Swamp Man Ted's "My Woman Cook Like Shit" (part of his "Genua Blues Revival," performance dates to be announced) was too much for her after two vodkas and most of a rum drink she'd yet to clearly identify.

And as long as the tears were there she eventually stopped laughing but the tears continued. It took a minute for Maltesi to notice the change. He dragged his chair next to hers and tried to angle his body so other people couldn't see she was crying.

She said a lot of tearful, incoherent things that he couldn't understand, except for the occasional "Vetinari" and "bastard" and something that sounded like "eyebrows."

Swamp Man Ted shot into an extended harmonica solo that got the audience clapping the beat he stomped with his foot.

"He wrote letters!" Hanna sobbed. "He wrote mean, horrible, hateful _letters_!"

Maltesi didn't know what to say to that because he didn't know what she was talking about. He knew Vetinari was a bastard; everybody knew that, but his knowledge of the situation stopped there.

"Come on, stop crying," he said. "It can't be that bad." He'd found that kind of thing was generally helpful in all situations.

"What does he want from me?" cried Hanna.

"You are a seamstress, aren't you?"

To Maltesi, this was a perfectly reasonable thing to say. Why Hanna broke out into fresh sobs was a mystery to him.

He ventured to put a hand on her shoulder.

"He doesn't hit you, does he?"

She sniffled and shook her head.

"Does he forget to pay you?"

"No."

"Does he lock you up in the dungeon or starve you?"

"No!"

"Well, I don't see where the problem is."

She glared at him.

"I never know what he's thinking. I never know what's going on. He can't just sit down and talk to me, he can't string together two honest sentences. If I ask him something he just gives me one of his stupid little smiles and says 'Use your powers of deduction, Hanna' or 'We'll discuss it another time, my _lamb_,' and then we never do! And I _hate_ it when he calls me that. I really hate it, but he won't stop!"

She blew her nose loudly.

"He always has to be so damn clever. He doesn't do anything for fun or because it's nice or...whatever, there has to be fifty motives all twisted together and I'm always just...guessing all the time. If he buys me something I'm thinking, why did he do that?"

She pointed at her wrist. A gold and diamond bracelet was there.

"He bought me this for my birthday. It probably has some secret compartment in it somewhere for little tiny iconographs or it's poisoned or...something because it can't just be a bracelet. With him, nothing is ever what it _is_. It's all just smoke. And another thing. He's always so calm, it drives me _insane_ that he never gets upset about anything. Doesn't he care about anything enough to have a good shout about it? He got overthrown and sent into exile and he still never raised his voice about it. It's not natural! And he's always sneaking up on me like some kind of ghost, and he never just cracks up laughing and, and he always has to be right, he's never wrong, and he's a real snoop, he has to know everything about everyone..."

Twenty minutes went by.

"...and he never wears anything but those stupid black robes and stupid beanie caps and I don't like the kind of soap he uses and if he gets something out of the wardrobe he never closes the door after him and he never rinses the bowl after he shaves. Oh, and his fingernails are too long."

Hanna wiped her cheeks on her sleeve. "I guess that's everything."

Swamp Man Ted's harmonica wheezed its last note. The quartet shut down. Maltesi and Hanna clapped with everyone else. They'd missed out on clapping the last three songs. Hanna was too busy complaining and Maltesi trying to keep his confusion masked behind a supportive look on his face.

Afterward, they went to the little back room where the band was packing up. Swamp Man Ted scooped Maltesi up into a bear hug.

"Anthony, my boy! How's it hangin'? What's the buzz?"

They chatted for a few minutes. Hanna hung back in the corner, so embarrassed that she feared she was blushing. She never cried. Never. Certainly not in public. And not in front of a man. Like soldiers and boxers, seamstresses couldn't show weakness.

She didn't realize they were talking about her until Swamp Man Ted patted her arm.

"_Men_," he said, rolling his eyes. "We drink, we burp, we fart. What good are we? I tell ye, ain't nough good men left in the world fo' me to count on one hand. Anthony, here, he's one." He slapped Maltesi on the shoulder.

"All right, Ted..."

"Tha's a good man, there. Foul mouth, no manners, but a good man. You listens to Swamp Man Ted, little lady. I knows what I's talkin' about."

She smiled. Ted had the sort of kindly, grizzled look that reminded her of her grandfather, Opa Stein. He was also a good man, though all he did before he died was drink, burp and fart from his chair in a corner of the family brewery.

She and Maltesi took a cab back to Madam's, but not all the way. Hanna called for the driver to stop up the road.

"Sorry I was such a mess back there," she said.

Maltesi started fiddling with his glasses. "It looks like you could use a good time. Why don't you stop by the party tomorrow? Syd'll be there."

Hanna smiled and allowed her anger and hurt and the hard liquor in her bloodstream to overrule her good judgment. The kiss came backed with hesitation, and was followed by a pause to see if the sky would fall down, courtesy of the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork. They waited, listening for any tell tale signs of Vetinari-induced trouble. The horse stamped a hoof and the driver on top of the cab spat in the road. That was it.

"You'd better get going," said Maltesi.

"Why?"

"Because you're drunk."

"No, I'm not."

"You should get going anyway."

"Are you scared of him?"

"Hell yes. I'm not stupid." Maltesi paused. "If it's any consolation, I also can't stand him. I've never met the man but I can't stand him."

"Me either," Hanna said wearily. She stumbled out of the carriage and looked up at the stars. Apparently, the Prancing Hippo was entering the sign of the Cricket, which probably meant somebody somewhere was getting a horoscope that said, "You will find a new love."

She wondered if she should start believing in horoscopes.

**oOo**

Lord Vetinari read the clacks as soon as Drumknott brought it in.

_My dear nephew,_

_I was quite puzzled by the tone of your clacks. Perhaps I was reading between the lines inaccurately, but your inquiry about Hanna and Mr. Maltesi sounded inordinately urgent. I assume the rumor you mentioned is exaggerated. Hanna has shown herself to be a delightful, helpful and entertaining young lady, even if now and then she seems a touch unhappy. It is only the strain of recent months, I'm sure. Regardless, your auntie will look into the matter. I have every confidence that there is an innocent explanation, and that I will soon be able to put your mind at rest._

_Your affectionate aunt_

The Patrician carried the note to the grate and searched around for a lit coal.

His mind did not need to be put at rest. It was at rest already. That was its permanent state.

He was as certain as she was that there was nothing serious to worry about with Hanna. It was only the leverage Polk was attempting to use that was the issue. They'd had one additional meeting, but the matter was not yet resolved to the Patrician's satisfaction. It wasn't going to be as easy as offering door number one or door number two.

He got the note to start burning, then went back to his desk. Soon, his contemplation of a municipal tax issue was interrupted by a thought that pierced through his restful mind for one brief second:

_A touch unhappy_.

He brushed it off and went back to work. He worked straight through until midnight, when eye strain didn't let him work any more. He took up a candle and opened a secret panel in the office wall.

Leonard of Quirm's attic was dark except for a few candles burning here and there. Leonard sat with a stick of charcoal in his hand, sketching in the moonlight.

"Good evening, Leonard," said the Patrician.

"What a surprise, my lord. I was just thinking you might be interested in my newest studies of shadow."

He turned the paper around so the Patrician could look. There was little actual form to the drawings, if they could be called drawings at all. Leonard had somehow succeeded in sketching a part of his workshop solely by reproducing the various light and deep shadows individual objects cast on one another. It was an eerie, dreamlike picture. The Patrician set it aside. Leonard lit a few more candles.

"How long have you been here at the Palace, Leonard?"

"I'm not sure, my lord. Tea?"

"No, thank you. I believe it's been six years. Six and a half." The Patrician stared around at the workshop. "You haven't minded that I don't visit very often, have you?"

"My lord?" Leonard wiped the charcoal off of his fingers with a paint encrusted rag.

"You have no complaints about your treatment here, do you?"

"None at all."

"I haven't been in any way..." The Patrician groped for vocabulary he didn't normally use, "...insensitive to your needs, have I?"

"Not that I've noticed."

Leonard was not very observant in conversations but even he could sense that something was not quite right about the Patrician. He started rummaging in a box at the foot of his drafting table.

"Are you running a fever, my lord? I've been experimenting with the properties of quicksilver and have made a small thermometer that can be comfortably inserted in the--"

"No, no. I'm fine."

Leonard looked disappointed. He laid his thermometer on the table. To the Patrician, it still looked too big to be inserted anywhere comfortably.

"On the whole, your stay at the Palace has been a pleasant one, hasn't it?" he asked.

"Oh yes, my lord. I have everything here I could want." Leonard waved at the skylight. "Windows, from which I can observe the flight of birds, candles to observe the shadows, paper and pencils and paints and bits of wood and..."

"Hmm," said the Patrician. He slumped in his chair.

In an unusual stroke of interpersonal insight, Leonard said, "Trouble with your young lady, my lord?"

The Patrician straightened as if he was embarrassed to be found slacking.

"Not at all. She is on holiday. A much-deserved rest. I'm delighted that she is enjoying herself so much."

"That's good, my lord." Leonard's grasp of irony was weak at the moment.

The Patrician's gaze settled on a looming metal contraption in the corner. "What is that?"

Leonard jumped out of his chair and fussed with a series of levers that protruded from the side of the machine. The whole thing looked like an iron turtle upright against the wall.

"I've been doing some astrological observations again with the help of those new star maps you got me, my lord." Leonard cleared a space on the floor of the workshop and dragged the iron turtle to the center. "It's a See-the-Stars-Inside-a-Room machine," he said proudly. "With these levers, the iron shell spins here and the little dots shift and project light onto the ceiling in the shape of a constellation."

"Remarkable." The Patrician stooped in front of the machine. "How many constellations is it capable of showing?"

"I believe I'm at 133, my lord. Just this morning I finished the Prancing Hippo."

"I would be interested in seeing each and every one of them."

Leonard looked happily stunned. "Are you sure you have time for that, my lord? It's rather late. I imagine most people are sleeping"

"I would also like you to explain in detail how everything works." Lord Vetinari pointed to a lever. "What does that do?"

Leonard launched into a complicated explanation, which was just what the Patrician needed. It's not like he had anything else he wanted to think about.


	10. Sail Away

**A-N**: I thought it was high time for a cliffhanger. **Beka** – Don't remember seeing you review before, so welcome! **Ivy** – Are you on the right track? Well... ( gazes at the sky) It won't be long till you see. **byrd** – I try to avoid cliches, but don't always manage. Maltesi, btw, is named after a certain well known fictional sailor. I wondered if anyone knew who, but no one's brought it up yet! **Ouatic **– No, Hanna's not being very fair, is she? This will lead to problems later... So enjoy the next bit! **oOo**

**10. Sail away**

The next morning at breakfast, Hanna was quiet. Half a croissant with strawberry marmalade stayed uneaten on her plate. She sipped juice and didn't take any coffee like she usually did. There were shadows under her eyes and a jackhammer in her head. Being a brewers daughter didn't mean she could handle large amounts of rum and vodka.

Madam wasn't looking much more rested. She grunted as she lifted the cat onto her lap.

"There are many paths in life," she said, "and at times, two of them become especially clear. Let us call them, the easy way and the hard way."

She stroked the cat.

"The easy way, of course, is the one most agreeable to us. Not so many brambles in the path, hidden dangers don't seem so urgent. Perhaps it is a path already tread by others so that we only have to walk to know the way."

Hanna took coffee after all. She warmed her fingers on the kitten mug.

"And then there is the hard way," said Madam. "The path is overgrown, the dangers are obvious and pain is certain. Yet, I propose to you that the path that looks the most difficult can yield the greatest advantages. The journey may not be as pleasant but the destination is almost certainly worth the effort. A path that is too easy probably isn't worth traveling."

Steam rose from Hanna's mug. She blew on it, took a drink. Metaphors. She'd been expecting a lecture and she was getting an extended metaphor.

"If enough people travel one path, there must be something to it," she said.

"You give people too much credit. They follow the person in front of them, all the way up to the leader. And there can be only one of those. Interestingly enough, the path for the leader is difficult and that same path is easy for the followers."

"I'm sorry, but I don't know where this is going."

The cat leapt off Madam's lap when she got up from her chair. She didn't look angry. If Hanna was to put a word to it, Madam looked worried.

"You haven't been thinking about our conversations."

"Auntie, please, I'm tired..."

"Hanna." Madam sat beside her and put a thin hand on her arm. "I would like to ask you a question. Woman-to-woman. I hope you'll answer it honestly. Can I rely on that?"

Hanna nodded. She guessed what was coming.

"Tell me, why did you help my nephew after he was overthrown?"

That wasn't the question Hanna expected. Lord Downey of the Assassins Guild had taken over the city for a couple of months. The moment Vetinari was put in jail, Hanna mobilized, doing everything she could to help him.

"Why didn't you protect yourself?" asked Madam. "You saw where the wind was blowing. The sooner you severed ties with Havelock, the safer you would have been. The unpleasantness with Downey that I heard about would never have happened."

This was true. Hanna dipped her nose in her cup.

"I knew Downey was too weak to stay patrician," she said. "The city wasn't going to run for long without Lord Vetinari."

"Ah!" Madam looked pleased. "You made a political assessment. A correct one, as we saw later. The city doesn't run so well without Havelock. Yes. That is true. But what did that have to do with you?"

"What do you mean?"

"Last I checked, your contract is with Havelock Vetinari, not the city."

"Is there a difference?" said Hanna wryly.

"It may seem at times that there isn't but believe me, there is. Now answer my question. Why does it matter to you who is in power in Ankh-Morpork?"

"His lordship is better for business."

"Also true! He is very good for business. And you are a businesswoman. He has reminded me of that many times in his letters."

Madam gazed shrewdly at Hanna.

"You must be a better businesswoman than I am, and that's saying something. You let that idiot Downey abuse you for business. You lived in exile for two months on a lonely island for business. A slight difference in the disposition of certain Assassins and you would have been inhumed for business. I'll say it again," Madam smiled, "you are a very dedicated businesswoman."

"Yes, I am." Hanna drained her mug and slammed it on the table. "I thought this trip might revolve around his lordship, but I have to say, I'm tired of it. The past two years of my life have revolved around him completely. Can't I get a rest?"

"I will remind you that you have been occupied with my nephew for two years. He has been occupied with you for four. Think of what that means."

"I don't know."

"Why do you think he pays you so much? Hm?"

"We negotiated it."

"No, he offered you a fortune up front. There was no negotiation."

Hanna stood up but Madam pulled her back into her chair with a surprisingly strong grip.

"Why did he buy your house for you?"

"I don't know."

"And why did he buy your family that brewery?"

"It was a reward."

"A reward. And why did he make you a baroness?"

"It was--"

"A reward, yes. And why did he set your Assassins Guild contract to 150 thousand dollars?"

"I don't know!"

Madam flinched.

"If you really don't know, I suggest you do some thinking."

Hanna had been doing that all night and wasn't interested in continuing. She got up and reached the door before Madam said, "You've achieved so much by taking the harder path. Don't stray from it now."

**oOo**

The Curl Up & Dye Salon and Beauty Emporium was Pseudopolis' finest establishment for ladies looking for a bit of help in the beauty battle. When Hanna walked in, a dozen women were in various stages of cosmetic or follical perfection, or were helping customers to that end. The steel grey sky outdoors was enough of an incentive for many of the city's ladies to flee to a warm communal place to forget the weather by contemplating lipstick colours, nail files and the stacks of iconographs that showed the year's hottest new hair styles.

Hanna didn't have an appointment but by the gods, she was going to get her hair done. She said up front that she was a baroness and she was rich. She got the expected reaction from Ginger, owner-operator of the salon. A gasp. Long purple nails (fake) clutching her chest for a moment in sheer snobbish delight, and then...

Hanna was surrounded by Beauty Specialists who whisked her into a chair and put a pink smock on her and introduced themselves and gave her coffee and so on. Hanna's hair was taken down and brushed out.

"_Gorgeous_, milady," gushed Ginger. "Customers pay top dollar for just that shade...we call it Summer Wheat, you know, a light brown kissed by the golden strands of sunshine." She sighed. "Heavenly. I have the perfect idea for a style that will wow the other ladies at any soiree. If we gather up the ends like this and twist like that..."

She began piling Hanna's hair every which way.

"I have something else in mind."

"Anything, milady. A facial first perhaps?"

"Blonde."

Ginger blinked.

"Pardon?"

"What is the blondest blonde you could put in my hair?"

"But milady, the colour you have is a lovely--"

"Blonde," said Hanna firmly. "I want to be so blonde that I can be seen from space."

"But why? If I may ask, milady."

Why. That was the important question but Hanna wasn't prepared to answer it. She only knew that early in the morning she'd brushed aside the paper swans she'd spent the night obsessively folding, something Madam had said to her replaying in her head.

_He was never one for blondes..._

And the accompanying thought that if the bastard didn't like blondes, he was going to get one.

"What is the blondest blonde you can give me?" she asked again.

Ginger fluttered away to consult her crack team of dye specialists and returned with a thick loop of hair. A colour sample.

It practically glowed.

"It's called Octiron Blonde," said Ginger, "for the intensity of the shine."

She held it next to Hanna's hair.

Hanna slowly smiled at herself in the mirror.

**oOo**

At the Palace of Ankh-Morpork, there were the usual reports, meetings, letters, negotiations, troubleshooting and other normal realities of city government. The only clue that something was amiss was the change in the Patrician's management style. He tended to be a hands off kind of ruler. He arranged things so that he rarely had to interfere in anything directly.

But lately, his rule had shrunk to microcosmic proportions. He Took An Interest. In everything. He went out himself with a yardstick to measure the street-to-gutter ratio on Broadway. He demanded a list of public lanterns in need of replacement and plotted the locations on a city map. He invited himself to the weekly meeting of the Guild of Butchers. He did all of this alone, no guards, no clerks.

People were getting nervous.

The City Watch meeting in the Oblong Office included a discussion of a dog napping ring and problems with traffic around public squares.

"...so I trust you will speak to the carters, commander," said the Patrician.

"Yes, sir." Watch Commander Sam Vimes stood staring over the Patrician's head, while Captain Carrot loomed like an oak tree just behind.

The Oblong Office smelled faintly of burnt paper.

The Patrician wrote on a list in front of him, then smiled at Vimes.

"And now for the tea," he said.

"Sir?"

"What kind of tea are the men drinking these days in the Watch houses?"

Vimes and Carrot exchanged puzzled looks.

"I think it's just tea, sir," said Vimes.

"Lingian, perhaps?"

"I don't think so."

"Agatean Blue?"

Vimes looked to Carrot. "That sound familiar?"

"No, sir."

Lord Vetinari gazed from Vimes to Carrot and back again.

"I believe, gentlemen, that the issue of tea is of some importance. The right blend of taste and stimulant will maximize the productivity and, I dare say, the job satisfaction of the watchmen. Happy watchmen make effective watchmen, eh?"

"Yes, sir," said Carrot with conviction.

Vimes tried hard not to let his brow wrinkle with too much obvious perplexity.

"If you want them happy, more money'll do it over tea every time, sir," he said.

The Patrician held up a finger.

"Ah, but in the long run, improvement of the daily working conditions is worth far more than a few extra cents a month. When the watchmen feel..." He stared into space, "...that their workplace is their second home, that they are comfortable there, valued and cherished, content in the small and pleasant details of work – such as the availability of hot and nourishing tea – they will be more likely to lead a more fulfilling, satisfying... I dare say, _happy_...life." He seemed to come down from whatever cloud he'd been on. "Don't you agree?"

"Yes, sir," said Carrot.

Vimes' wrinkles deepened. "You have some tea-related suggestion, sir?"

"Orange Pekoe in the morning and Earl Pink in the afternoon." The Patrician leaned back in his chair, his long fingers laced together. "Pekoe has a gentle yet sustained lift that will get the watchmen through till teatime, when Earl Pink's more aggressive yet shorter effects can be enjoyed until the end of the shift."

There was silence in the Oblong Office. Vimes did what he normally didn't do, which is to look directly at the Patrician. Lord Vetinari's face seemed open and pleasant.

"It's a good idea, sir," he said to be on the safe side.

The Patrician made a check on his list. "Inform me in a week of progress. Good day."

The clacks smoldering in the grate was from Griffin. Most everything was burned except for _...report, they disappeared during the scuffle between the Brotherhood of Lenny and the priestesses of Eartha... returned early afternoon to Madam's... Unaccounted for: 16 hours. Same evening, with Mr. M. at bar Clinical Diagnosis... Complaints... Tears..._

**oOo**

The Deathday party was well underway. It was held on the Ankh, of course. What better place to honor Captain Maltesi with a brew up that promised blathered guests and accordion music than on his own ship? Hundreds of former crew members and friends were on deck kicking it up or drinking it down. Paper lanterns were strung up the ropes. Fireflies glowed inside their glass globes hanging here and there on the railings.

Maltesi was at that moment receiving the business end of Syd's hand on his rear.

"He got'm, yes he has!" yelled Old Pete. He was wearing a frilly light blue shirt and had a paper hat on his head shaped like a boat. He had a beer in his hand. There was laughter across the deck.

Maltesi's party hat was conical and had sparkly paper sprouting out of the tip. He looked like he was about to punch Syd in the face, but Syd said something and Maltesi broke down laughing. Syd was still dressed in the Klatchian harem girl outfit.

Old Pete made a wobbly attempt to raise his beer.

"One up fer the old cap'n!" he shouted.

_One up fer the old cap'n! _chorused the guests. Everybody drank down whatever they had on hand.

They seemed to have been doing this all night. Beer was tipped over shoulders, dribbled down shirts and poured accidentally over heads. The deck was periodically swabbed by two mild looking golems wearing aprons and party hats of their own.

The carriage pulled right up to the gangplank. The driver got down to help Hanna. He averted his eyes as he did it, giving him a groveling look. He wasn't exactly groveling, it was just smarter under the circumstances to look down. This was how he discovered that the glittering hem of the lady's gown looked like it was worth a year's salary; she was obviously a big tip waiting to happen. He did a deep Pseudopolis bow and offered to help her up the gangplank. She declined and tipped big. He drove home and took the next week off.

When Hanna was halfway up the gangplank, she was spotted from the deck by a little old man with less hair and more liver spots than Old Pete. He oggled her a moment, then disappeared.

By the time she stepped on deck, a good portion of the guests were clustered around staring at her. Squinting, actually. Some kept their heads turned slightly, as if looking at her directly hurt their eyes.

For the most part, this was true.

Maltesi stepped out of the crowd to see what was going on. He had to shade his eyes with a hand.

"What the blazes did you do to yourself?"

"Does the _Gentleman's Guide to Pseudopelian Etiquette_ say to greet party guests like that?"

He sneaked a peak at her, then rubbed his eyes.

"We could stick you on a rock by the water and use you as a lighthouse."

"You don't like it?" She ran her finger down a ringlet at her neck. "I think it's very..."

"Blonde." Maltesi's brow wrinkled. "Did you mean for it to turn out that way?"

"You're very tactful, Mr. Maltesi. And yes, I did. I was looking for something new. Something with more energy and excitement."

"You could power the fabled Klatchian solar barge. Good gods."

Syd fluttered up and let out a long, high-pitched gasp.

"You look FABULOUS! Let me guess. Octiron Blonde, isn't it? I love it! I just _do_!" They kissed each other on the cheeks. "It just makes you..." Syd threw his hands up in the air. "..._light_ up. Like a star! Oh... I wish I could wear blonde, but it's just not me. I've tried highlights but they just don't show up! Did you have it done at Curl Up & Dye? I _knew_ it! Ginger is the best. She plucks my eyebrows _personally_. See?"

Syd leaned close to Hanna and pointed at his eyebrows.

"And your dress! I'm just _dying_ to see the whole thing!"

Hanna took off her cloak. The guests had to shade their eyes again. In the firefly light, the gown shimmered like it had a life of its own. Syd looked like he was about to choke on his envy.

"Oh, Anthony, doesn't she look divine? Like a goddess!"

Maltesi called for a beer and thought over what he was about to say. It was off page 83 of the _Gentleman's Guide_ and he wanted to be sure it came out right.

"You're looking especially lovely tonight," he said.

Hanna smiled.

"And I mean especially lovely as in I'm sure you look lovely normally. I wouldn't know, really. The only nights I've seen you, there was the bath house pool and the business with the Brotherhood and the tunnel and frankly, neither of us were at our best then, and at the Clinic you were a right mess, but I assume on a normal night, the kind with no kidnappings and breakdowns and so on, you probably look only slightly less lovely than you look tonight."

He ran that over in his mind again, and nodded, satisfied.

"If I was blonde, would you say such sweet things to me?" asked Syd.

"Er... No."

"You're hopeless!" Syd slapped Maltesi on the arm, tossed an envious look at Hanna and went off into the crowd to search for a new victim.

"The hair's not that bad," said Maltesi. "It's a little radical, that's all."

"Well, _I_ like it. And that's what's important."

The accordions started up something new, a catchy beat that got everyone clapping. Old Pete started jigging in place. People formed up two long lines down the deck, feet tapping, fingers snapping. There was a male line and a female line. Hanna and Maltesi took their places. Syd found a partner and positioned himself in the female line. Of course.

At first, clapping was the main part, and some general all purpose bouncing. Hanna clapped to the beat and smiled at Maltesi opposite her. He smiled back.

The accordions were harmonizing. The women started doing little knee kicks, and it took Hanna a minute before she caught on. The men took up clapping over their heads and they had the complicated footwork, the jig. The accordions sped up and the lines met and parted and met up again, and as the beat raced along, there was a point when Maltesi grabbed Hanna's hand and so did Syd and a snaking worm of an oval spun around down the deck and back up again. There was a pause for some kicks – Hanna crashed into Syd at first because of velocity – and the spinning started again, and the kicks, and the spins.

She was laughing. Everybody was. Hanna couldn't remember the last time she'd laughed that hard and that long.

It was just what she needed. If she laughed hard enough and drank enough and had enough people around her, it was easy to stop thinking about Vetinari and Madam and being a baroness and a seamstress and just a normal person manipulated by people who were _not_ normal, for purposes she could only guess at. She was tired to death of it.

When the accordions finally cut off, everybody screamed and hooted and stomped their feet. Hanna joined in for the heck of it.

That was how most of the night went. Dancing, drinking. It got too loud to talk to Maltesi but then, she didn't want to talk to him. They were too busy dancing or clapping or whistling or laughing at other people. He pinned a party hat to her hair. There was a lot of singing, but they were old sailor songs that Hanna didn't know. She tried to teach the group an Ansbacher beer song, and a few old crew members of the Captain knew it and when everybody got through it successfully, Hanna was given a large beer with the blessings of the ghost of the Captain. She drank it down without batting an eye and the people were so impressed, they made her an honorary member of the Captain's crew in a ceremony that involved drunken speeches by various people including Old Pete. At one point, Hanna sprawled on a piano brought on deck for the evening and sang a seamstress song that began _I want to be loved by you, by you and nobody else but you..._, which earned her hoots from the sailors and the satisfying view of a flushed Maltesi guzzling beer something chronic while he watched.

In the wee hours, the guests started dribbling away to their beds. Hanna stayed when the golems carried the last of the crates of empty beer bottles off the ship and deposited them on the dock for delivery to the brewery in the morning. She helped Maltesi collect the stuff guests left behind and dumped it in a lost and found box.

And then, only they and the golems were left.

They were both in that sobriety on the other side of dead drunkenness. Side by side, they leaned on their elbows against the rail of the ship and looked out over the river.

"Do you know what I'd like to do?" asked Hanna.

Maltesi waited.

"I'd like to drive this thing straight out to the ocean."

He glanced at her. The night must have drained everything; she looked troubled again.

"I figured you had to be getting back home."

"I don't have to do anything I don't want to. For once." She straightened. "Can we sail this ship to the ocean? Right now?"

An internal crisis erupted in Maltesi, a bigger one than he'd had in the cab the night before when Hanna kissed him. On one hand was that part of his brain – and other organs -- that thought sailing off with a lady like her was a very, very nice idea. The more cautious part of his mind figured that being thrown in the river with cement around his feet embedded with the seal of Ankh-Mopork was not the way he wanted to end his life.

"I don't think..." And then he stopped thinking because she'd moved closer with a certain look on her face that he hadn't seen before, a soft, inviting look that made him forget what he was so worried about. Ankh-Morpork? That cess pit of a city was far away. And Vetinari? Vetinari who?

"To hell with him," he said.

Hanna took his hand. "To hell with him."

When Griffin saw the golems pulling in the gangplank, he slinked out of the shadow he'd been lurking in, took a rope with a hook from his pack and swung it at one of the ship's lines. It caught. He pulled to fix the connection and prepared to swing onto the side of the hull.

A sudden black out, courtesy of the Agatean Sleep Grip delivered from behind, made him crumble up on the dock instead.

Dennis stooped and put a couple fingers to Griffin's neck. The pulse was fine. He'd wake up in a few hours.

"Sorry, old boy," he whispered.

Not far away, Lester was already sleeping the sleep of the Agatean Grip.

The ship was slowly leaving the dock. Dennis snatched up Griffin's rope and took a running jump.


	11. Pain All Around

**A-N**: Cold and gray here in lovely Deutschland. Oh well... **Frosteh** - The song was a definite Marilyn Monroe reference to match Hanna glamming herself up as a blonde bomber. **Intrikate** – You have a soft heart, eh? Basically, so do I. Welcome **Flamingo**! So...now that the plot is as thick as it's gonna get, it's time to enter the home stretch...**oOo**

**11. Pain All Around**

The next afternoon, Lord Vetinari received one clacks message from Pseudopolis after another. He had ordered all Pseudopolis messages to be brought at once, day or night, meetings, appointments, meals – no matter.

He was getting information from various quarters because information was the fuel of decision making. A picture of the shipping businesses of Polk and Maltesi had already been built, their personalities too, their histories, relationships, families. An interesting fact arose out of the noise – Polk had been second in command under Anthony Maltesi's father, and had left abruptly under unhappy circumstances. Polk had a personal grudge against Maltesi; that was obvious from his visit. But Lord Vetinari's informants had also confirmed what Polk said. Maltesi _was_ a smuggler and a privateer. Part-time at least. But then, in the shipping business, everyone was.

There was also a clacks from Madam. Among a good deal of interesting information, it included these lines:

_Yesterday morning I found her room swimming in paper swans. By what you've told me, this indicates that something is weighing heavily on her mind. I will speak to her about it only if you wish it._

Paper swans. The Patrician considered it a mark of the stability of their relationship that since Hanna arrived at the Palace, her production of origami animals had steadily declined.

Yes, it was a bad sign indeed.

There was a knock on the office door. Lord Vetinari opened it himself.

"Ah, Mildred. Delighted to see you."

There were two things wrong from the perspective of the Palace maid Mildred Easy. First, Lord Vetinari had invited her to the Oblong Office. Not ordered. Invited. In a nicely worded invitation on gold-edged paper delivered a half hour ago by Drumknott.

The second thing wrong was on his lordship's face. The smile. He looked genuinely pleased to see her.

Mildred couldn't imagine why. She didn't even have the tea. She could only conclude that she was about to be fired. It occurred to her that he wouldn't bother to do this himself, but she couldn't think of any other explanation.

The Patrician pulled a chair out from the conference table and waved for her to sit. He took a place beside her, but it wasn't like he was about to have a meeting of some kind. The chair was angled so he could face her. He had his hands on his knees. The smile was still fixed on his face. He looked ready to have an intimate conversation.

Mildred braced herself.

"Thank you for coming on such short notice," he said.

Various responses went through her head. She settled with, "I'm glad to be here, milord."

His smile deepened.

"I'm very happy to hear that, Mildred. It is true that I don't often have the opportunity to check up on my staff. To...assure that everything is in order. Is everything in order?"

"I put those files in alphabetical order just like Mr. Drumknott said, milord. The ones with the numbers had to be moved to the--"

"That is not _quite_ what I meant." He paused. "Perhaps I should word it this way. Is there anything you find unsatisfactory about your work? Everything is negotiable. If any aspect of your life here at the Palace is bothering you, I will personally see that it gets corrected."

Mildred was confronted by the pleasant smile. It encouraged her to talk. She just didn't know what she was supposed to say.

"I don't have any complaints, sir, if that's what you mean."

"None at all? Really?"

He looked subtly disappointed.

"Well, maybe there was one thing, milord."

"Yes?"

"The sugar, sir."

The Patrician's determined smile wavered.

"Yes? What about the sugar?"

"Mrs. Dipplock said I was to bring in sugar with your tea every day regular. But you don't take sugar and neither does Lady Hanna. Every day I bring up the same sugar bowl but the sugar doesn't get used and now if you look close it's a wee bit...aged." She looked embarrassed.

"Aged."

"Yes, sir. Bits of lint on it. I tried to clean it but then the fleas got into the--" she put a hand over her mouth.

That happened to be the same gesture Lord Vetinari was making. He massaged the smile from his face and fixed her with a solemn expression. He looked like he was about to make an important announcement.

"As of today, you may stop bringing sugar in with the tea, Mildred. I will inform Mrs. Dipplock."

"Oh, thank you, milord. It just didn't seem to make sense to empty the old sugar bowl and fill it up new when you weren't going to use that either. It's perfectly good sugar. My mam always says--"

"Something grounded in the wisdom of the common folk, I'm sure."

He got up and wrapped his hands over the back of his chair.

"Thank you for bringing this matter to my attention. As you can see, I am happy to discuss anything that concerns you. Every man, woman and...miscellaneous at the Palace is important to me. This is not only a place of business; it is my home. Happiness begins with harmony in the home. Don't you agree?"

"Er...yes, sir."

"Indeed." The Patrician started strolling around the conference table. He gestured at nothing as he talked. "Harmony in the home is a function of the contentment of its members. It is only possible to be content if one knows that whether one is head of the household or a maid, he or she is an important and appreciated part of the whole. We are all connected in a tapestry of relationships that produces, when all is well, a pleasing pattern. When one member of the household is discontent, a snag occurs. The entire tapestry is in danger of unravelling."

"At home, when our carpet gets a snag, we just snip it, milord." Mildred wasn't one for metaphors.

The Patrician looked offended. "There will be no snipping in _my_ household, Miss Easy."

She squirmed in her chair. "I only meant--"

"No matter. We were discussing the Palace, and that is a very special house indeed." The smile returned. "I wish you to know that your work here is appreciated by me and the rest of the staff. We appreciate your helpfulness, efficiency, thoughtfulness and punctuality. I thank you for the sterling work you've done. You are a crucial part of the tapestry that is the Palace of Ankh-Morpork."

There was silence. Something about his raised eyebrows tipped off Mildred that the Patrician was waiting for her to say something.

"Er...are you feeling all right, milord?"

His eyebrows descended.

"I am quite well, thank you," he sighed.

"Maybe I could bring you a new tea. It's got barley in it."

"Barley. Marvellous. Yes, that sounds quite nice right now."

He escorted her to the door.

"If you have any more concerns, feel free to bring them to my attention. My door is always open. When it is not closed."

He closed the door behind her.

It was opened a few moments later by Drumknott. He handed over a clacks.

"It came urgent, milord."

It was still in code. Lord Vetinari read it without having to decode it first.

From Griffin. There were quite a few numbers. Octiron Blonde hair dye – 200 dollars. White gown – 600. Accessories – 300. There were times and addresses.

And then, the Ankh. A description of the ship, a party. 9:13 p.m., the arrival of Hanna. What Griffin could see through a telescope – dancing, drinking, singing. Maltesi, of course. The words, _To hell with him_.

And then, the attack.

Lord Vetinari frowned at the paper.

Griffin admitted that he was unconscious for several hours, and when he awakened, the Ankh was gone with Hanna and Maltesi on it. He waited at the docks for its return. Shortly after noon. Hanna left the ship by herself dressed in men's clothing. Time she was unaccounted for: 8 hours.

Men's clothing?

The Patrician carefully folded the message in half. Then he folded it again. And again and again until it was a thick knob of paper that he could comfortably crush in his fist.

"Has Mr. Polk left the city?"

"Yes, milord."

"I will be visiting the Guild of Dock Workers at 3 p.m. Arrange it."

The Patrician got up abruptly and stared out the window for a while.

"Invite Mrs. Palm for 5." She was head of the Seamstress Guild.

"Yes, milord." Drumknott went to the door, but hesitated to leave.

"Wait."

Drumknott waited.

"Only the Dock Workers. For now."

"Yes, milord."

The Patrician scribbled a note at his desk, handed it to his clerk with a grimmer look on his face than usual, then went back to the windows. His hands were clasped so tightly behind his back that the knuckles were white as a corpse.

**oOo**

"Cecil! Get a doctor!"

The servant didn't have to be asked twice. He was out of Madam's bedroom and down the hall while Hanna sat on the edge of the bed and gently slapped Madam's cheek. She wouldn't wake up. She had a different pallor than before, something a bit bluish that made Hanna fear the worst. At least Madam was breathing. Barely.

She'd been fine when Hanna got back from her night on the Rim Ocean. Madam admired her hair and asked if she had a good time last night but didn't ask details despite the strange fact that Hanna was dressed in men's clothing with her evening gown over her arm. Hanna slept till dinner and they spent a quiet evening in front of the fire staring at books they weren't really reading. They both decided on an early night and went upstairs together. Madam made it to the landing before she collapsed into Hanna's arms.

"Auntie?" she whispered. "Please wake up."

No reaction from Madam.

"Gods..." Hanna looked around for something to do. She was trained in basic medical care in the matter of "preventatives" and "accidents" as prescribed by the Seamstress Guild, but that kind of thing wasn't going to help Madam. She was a bit beyond that. The only thing she could think of was to get a glass of water that Madam couldn't drink at the moment, and a warm wet towel that for all Hanna knew would have no effect on her.

Hanna touched her cheek again. Cool. She checked her pulse. Weak.

Panic was not going to help, but it was wriggling around inside Hanna, waiting to break out. Along with the guilt.

She adjusted the blanket and tried to keep her hands from shaking.

Too late, she was thinking. It was too late...

**oOo**

Nothing much went on at the Maltesi ships that day seeing as most of the staff was getting over a terrible beer or schnapps-induced hangover. Nobody thought much of the Ankh and Maltesi being gone half the day. Frankly, it was good news. Employees everywhere were glad when the boss was out.

He stumbled into his office mid-afternoon and shut himself up without talking to anyone. Anybody who knocked was told to go away. Old Pete got in and stayed for ten minutes and left with a worried look on his face. Maltesi didn't leave his office until after sundown when the staff had gone home.

Hands shoved in his pockets, head down, he walked along the pier toward the Ankh. There was so much to think about that he couldn't think at all. The Rim Ocean, that was an image in his mind. And the stars. Reflections on the water. It was a calm sea last night off the coast. All they heard was the water lapping a little against the side of the ship. The rattle when a breeze disturbed the rigging. There wasn't a more peaceful place anywhere else in the world.

The ocean and stars and Hanna crowded his mind so well that he didn't see the shadows shift along the wall of the warehouses he passed.

Behind him, there was a crunching sound. A footfall.

Maltesi turned. The pier was empty.

He turned again and walked into a fist.

**oOo**

Hanna always thought it was suspicious that doctors wouldn't let loved ones stay in the room when they were doing their examination. It seemed like an accountability issue. How could she know if he was doing his job right?

Pacing, she waited in the hallway with Cecil. The doctor was twenty minutes with Madam already.

"What's he doing?" she demanded.

"We must let him practice his art, milady. Dr. Bayles is the most competent doctor in the city. That is not saying much when the rest of the doctors are pompous idiots, but he is at least marginally better."

Hanna paced some more.

"I don't care what she says; I should clacks the Patrician. He should know what's going on."

"Have no fear, milady. I did it myself when I fetched the doctor."

Hanna looked surprised, then nodded with relief. She didn't want to be the bearer of bad news. She didn't want to contact him at all, really.

"I wonder if he'll come," she said.

"I will inform you immediately of a reply, milady."

The bedroom door opened. Dr. Bayles was a rather nondescript man with a plain face but a pleasant smile if he chose to use it. It was a smile that had charmed Syd, though that wasn't hard to do.

"You may come in now," he said.

Hanna pushed past him.

**oOo**

All of the men wore a kind of gray-green that made them blend into the shadows. It was dark enough that at first, Maltesi only knew he was being hit. He couldn't see who was doing it.

He threw a wild punch at a moving shadow and got a fist in the stomach. He doubled over. Somebody else hit him on the back and he dropped to his knees.

"You know," said one of the assailants. This was Joe. He was a smiling man with a baby face. "This hurts us more than it hurts you, Mr. Maltesi. It really does."

One of his buddies, Bruce, pushed Maltesi to the ground.

"Of course, you have to look at the application of meanings of the word hurt," said Joe. "It's an interesting word. Linguistically, we use it as both a noun and a predicate. For the sake of argument, we'll look at the predicate."

Joe gave Maltesi a thoughtful kick in the ribs. The others followed with less thoughtful kicks in other parts of Maltesi's body. He turned over and caught one of Bruce's boots and hauled him over but that was it. The others pinned his arms, and when he tried to shout for help, they smacked him across the mouth.

"As you can see here, it's possible to hurt someone physically," said Joe. "It's very unpleasant but I would argue that it's not half as damaging as hurting someone mentally or emotionally. Wouldn't you agree, Tom?"

Tom's leg paused in mid-kick. "Definitely. The body is wonderfully resilient. Cuts and bruises and even breaks heal. Mental hurts, on the other hand, are something else. There's no branch of medicine to help heal those."

His boot found a soft bit. Maltesi groaned on the ground.

"What about that Dr....Sigfried Frued...of Borogravia?" said Bruce. He casually slipped on a pair of brass knuckles. "I thought he was doing some good work in treating mental pain."

"It's Dr. Fred," said Joe. "And it's a new field. I'll reserve judgement until there've been more clinical studies. My point _is_..." He held up one of Maltesi's arms so Bruce could punch him without obstruction in the ribs. "...that everything we're doing to you, Mr. Maltesi, is nothing compared to the hurt we're experiencing mentally. We don't like doing stuff like this. We're not common thugs. And four lads to one; it's shameful. Not fair at all. We're hurting inside, aren't we, lads?"

The lads nodded.

"Why do you think we have conversational talking points while we do this? It's because we want a distraction. This demeans all of us, Mr. Maltesi." Joe paused. "Mr. Maltesi?"

He wasn't moving anymore.

There was one shadow that hadn't left the safety of the darkness.

Griffin watched from his hiding place. He was feeling rather bad about having to stay out of it. Maltesi really didn't have a chance.

He glanced across the pier at a stack of barrels by the water. A pair of eyes glittered out from behind them.

That was Lester. He wasn't feeling bad about it at all.

**oOo**

"...and absolutely no excitement," Dr. Bayles was saying. He was Dr. Dennis Bayles. For this occasion, at least. He had many names, titles and occupations. He was passably good at all of them.

Hanna sat on the edge of the bed. Madam was awake but she wasn't saying much. Her eyes were dull.

Dr. Bayles tucked the last of his medical instruments into his bag and snapped it shut.

"Did something happen today that upset her?" he asked.

Hanna looked at Madam. The pallor was still there, and a little distressed frown. "I don't know," she said.

"Any kind of shock could be more than her heart can stand. So please, don't allow anything to upset her. Give her fennel tea and dried toast in the morning, and some fruit. No citrus. Keep her in here until she can walk this room without needing help."

He gave Hanna and Madam a deep Pseudopolis bow, nodded at Cecil and left.

Madam smiled weakly.

"Don't worry, my dear." Her voice was faint. "I'm a survivor." She closed her eyes. "Will you stay with me until I go to sleep?"

She took Hanna's hand. The grip was surprisingly firm.

**oOo**

Maltesi was aware that he was no longer on the ground. The consciousness thing was still questionable; he could've been dreaming. His face felt swollen but that might've been because, he saw when he pried his eyes open for a moment, he was slung over someone's shoulder. The blood – whatever he had left in him – had rushed to his head.

Eventually, he felt himself being settled onto the ground. He slumped back with a sigh. Breathing. Air. It was very, very good.

A wall was at his back. A building. He didn't have the energy to look up and see which one. He didn't even have the energy to look up at the man who'd carried him. His knees were as far as his line of sight went. He was wearing a kind of a gray-green.

The man took something out of his pocket and stooped beside Maltesi.

"Open up," he whispered.

The words didn't quite make sense to Maltesi. He stared at a pair of black eyes that seemed to have a flash of compassion in them. Maltesi tried to say something but his lips felt stuck together.

The man gently, but painfully, pried open his jaw and poured something in his mouth. It was some kind of powder that started dissolving on his tongue. Maltesi coughed but decided to stop when a shooting pain went through his chest. He would've spat but that was more effort than he could stand. He let the stuff dissolve and closed his eyes and decided that being beat up and poisoned wasn't nearly as bad as being locked up in the Patrician's scorpion pit. Maltesi didn't like crawly creatures with spiked tails.

Yes, poison. It was nice and immediate if it was the right kind. And painless. His body didn't feel like such an open sore anymore.

He tried to think of a few momentous last words. Something about women and weakness and damn fools. He abandoned the whole thing when he remembered that he couldn't talk.

His head slumped against his chest.

Griffin patted him on the shoulder. Then he pulled the cord connected with the bells at the Sailors Barracks, and slipped off into the darkness.


	12. Excuse My Klatchian

**A-N**: De-lurkinig is always welcome, **Kristin**! Thanks, **Flamingo**. I really like Syd too. Makes me wonder where I come up with some of these characters... **Ihadanepiphany** – What do _you_ think Hanna should do? We'll see what she does soon enough! Thanks, all reviewers/readers! **oOo**

**12. Excuse My Klatchian**

Trolls stood with their arms crossed and their feet spread at the bottom of the Ankh's gangplank. There was moss growing on them. It was obvious they weren't long off the mountain. They didn't have weapons because their fists were enough.

No business happened on Maltesi's ships that day. The crews milled around talking softly. They were armed.

Nothing much went on in the shipping office. The clerks were there, but they were mostly drinking coffee in a frightened huddle. A few of the more knowledgeable clerks were quietly burning select files.

The dock workers were in the pubs having an early nip for the health of Anthony Maltesi. If a schnapps raised to the gods would help, then the whole lot of them would have to be dead drunk to save Maltesi. None of them had seen him but they'd heard. Word of mouth had done its work. The dock workers now believed Maltesi had only one eye, three fingers, one kidney and half a leg left.

That sort of thing was all right for a sailor in a fight to the death to defend his ship and treasure at sea. It was a disgrace when it was obviously an ambush on the docks.

Hanna sensed that something wasn't right the moment she got out of the cab. Things were too quiet. People clustered together over steaming coffee or drinkable paper bags and stared at her suspiciously as she passed. It couldn't have been her hair. She was wearing a scarf.

The clerks informed her curtly that Mr. Maltesi wasn't in but they didn't say where he was. She headed down to the Ankh.

The trolls stared at her when she asked politely if she could pass. She asked a second time.

One of the trolls stirred. "Who are you?"

She looked up at the deck of the ship. Armed men paced, their crossbows fitted with arrows.

"What's happened?" she asked.

"Dey's got de boss," said the troll.

She tried to push past, but several hundred pounds of moving stone was an effective block. "Let me through!"

"Sorry. Can't do dat. Orders."

"Whose orders?"

"Ol' Pete."

Hanna stepped back from the gangplank.

"Old Pete!" she shouted. "Pete!"

Some of the armed men squinted down at her, then disappeared. A few moments later, Pete waddled onto the deck and shouted down at her.

"Git out of here, gel! Ye's done enough damage, haven't ye? Eh?"

"What happened?"

"Don't give me that. I ain't the boy. I ain't a fool. A pretty face don't mean a thing to me. Now git on out of here before I have the lads throw ye out."

She tried to push past the trolls again but they held her by the arms. They weren't accustomed to dealing delicately with humans. It was an understatement to say their grip pinched. Hanna had to grit her teeth.

"Let me on!" she shouted.

Pete spat overboard and disappeared.

Anthony Maltesi was in the Captain's bed, where he'd been since the sailors found him slumped against the wall of the barracks the night before. Things weren't quite as bad as his workers thought they were. He was still all in one piece.

He stirred when Pete stepped past the dwarves on guard outside the Captain's door.

"What's the racket?" he asked weakly.

"Nothin. Go back to sleep. Ye need yer strength, boy."

Maltesi was as surprised as anyone else to find that he wasn't dead. When he first woke up that morning, he thought that the afterlife just happened to look like his father's ship. He'd heard Death was like that.

But then Pete was there and the others and slowly, his mind started collating information. He hurt, but not as bad as he should have. Apparently, the powder that the man with the boots had given him was some kind of medicine.

_Anthony!_

He tried to raise himself on his elbows. The windows were open and the breeze was carrying in sound.

Pete made him lay back down.

"Ye don't have the strength to git up. Have some sense, boy."

_Anthony!_

Maltesi stared at Pete. Pete shook his head.

"I ain't lettin' her on. If she weren't around distractin' ye, ye'd had time to deal with that bastard Polk. Just say the word and the lads'n me'll give him back some of his own."

"Let her on."

"Ye's a fool, boy! The gel's trouble from beginnin' to last. I musta been dead drunk to allow her to be an honorary member of the cap'n's crew."

"Let her on." Maltesi ran a hand over his face. The bumpy result wasn't promising. "Go on, Pete."

Pete stuck his chest out.

"I ain't gonna do it. Ye's not thinkin' straight, with yer injuries n' all."

"Then I'll have to order you."

"I ain't doin' it."

"This is my ship. I didn't get hit in the head so hard that I forgot that. It's my ship. On my ship, my orders are followed. I order you to let her on."

Old Pete frowned down at Maltesi, then did an exaggerated salute and stomped out.

When she came in, Hanna's mouth dropped open.

"Leave us alone," Maltesi ordered. Pete and the dwarf guards reluctantly left the room. "I look like hell, don't I?"

He tried to smile but it came out looking like a grimace. Hanna sat beside him. It seemed to be a day of bedsides. She'd left Madam weak but stable.

He told her what he knew, what the sailors who found him told him. It wasn't much.

"Nothing's broken," he said. "Looks like he just wanted to rough me up."

"Who?"

"Who do you think?"

"Lord Vetinari wouldn't order something like this. Ever."

"Really?"

"Even if he cared enough about me to be jealous, that sort of thing isn't his style. He'd ruin your business behind your back before he sent thugs to beat you up."

She was saying it and she believed it, but there was a little voice in the back of her mind that sort of...doubted. Jealousy didn't have much to do with love. It had a lot more to do with power and control. And those were things Lord Vetinari cared a lot about indeed.

"Gods," she said. "And I thought things couldn't get worse. Madam Meserole had another collapse last night."

She pulled the treasure map out of her purse. The two pieces were pinned together with straight pins. It was obvious that the treasure lay in the first range of the Carrack Mountains. Which mountain was shown only when the halves were together – a rather knobby little mountain that had, on paper, several symbols on it. A goat, a lightening bolt, some strange echses in circles.

"This morning I found somebody who can guide me into the mountains," said Hanna. "I hope."

Maltesi painfully pulled himself up against the headboard.

"Have you gone mad? You're not going alone."

"You're in no condition to come with me."

"I'll be on my feet tomorrow."

"It's miles and miles of hiking and then the mountain to climb." She put the map away. "I don't expect you to help me anymore. I'm sorry I got you into this to begin with. I think you should--"

"Gods damn it, I didn't do all this to miss out on the end. I'm going with you and if I hear another word about it, I'll..." He considered the condition of his body. "I'll get one of the golems to dunk you overboard till you come to your senses. I'm going with you, you understand? Don't argue with me."

Hanna smiled a little.

"All right. I'll wait till day after tomorrow. But if Madam gets worse, I'll have to leave earlier whether you're ready or not."

He nodded and slid back onto the pillows.

To Hanna, he really was looking sad and pathetic and torn up. She touched his face gently, then kissed him. His lips were still numb enough for him not to feel much.

He didn't really care.

**oOo**

"Drumknott?"

"Yes, my lord?"

The clerk waited for the Patrician to continue, but Lord Vetinari didn't. His hand hovered over the Djelibeybian section of the map of the Disc spread out on the table in his office. Little yellow bits of paper were stuck here and there with cryptic notes in the Patrician's handwriting. They'd been examining the border disputes with Djelibeybi and its neighbors by plotting out where the borders had been in the past. It wasn't a necessary task in Drumknott's opinion, nothing his lordship needed to do himself. But when the clerk offered to trace out the old borders on separate maps and bring them into the Oblong Office when he was finished, Lord Vetinari insisted on doing it himself despite the thousand and one other things he should be doing.

The silence continued. Drumknott started to worry. He prided himself on knowing what his master was thinking. Lately, he'd lost his bearings. Lord Vetinari seemed more...eccentric than usual.

Frowning, the Patrician straightened up, his gaze moving hubwards along the map to Pseudopolis.

"How upset would you be if I told you that I'd been disseminating rather negative information about you?"

"You've been bad-mouthing me, milord?" asked Drumknott, shocked.

"No, no, no. It's a hypothetical question."

"Well..." Drumknott thought a moment. "Would we be talking about things I've done and want to keep secret, or--"

The Patrician waved a hand. "Nothing like that. Opinions. If I told someone 'Mr. Drumknott is, in my opinion, a foolish young man incompetent at his job...'"

"My lord!"

"I will remind you this is hypothetical. Calm down." Lord Vetinari's frown deepened, which didn't help Drumknott calm at all. "If I said something like that, how upset would you be?"

"Bloody upset, I'll say!"

The Patrician raised an eyebrow. Drumknott colored.

"Excuse my Klatchian, milord."

"Upset enough to leave your post here?"

"Is this still hypothetical?"

"Yes," said the Patrician testily. "I will inform you when we leave the realm of hypothesis."

Drumknott was unfortunate to be caught in a situation in which he didn't want to tell the truth in front of someone who would surely catch him out if he didn't.

"I don't think I could go on working for someone who thought that of me, sir."

"Even if the money and status you earned for staying were compelling?"

"I'm not really paid enough to—"

"Hypothesis, Drumknott..."

"Sorry, sir. Then... I think I'd have to weigh whether the money was worth my self-respect."

The Patrician nodded and bent over the table, a yellow stickie paper in his fingers. He stuck one on the Carrack Mountains. Noted on the paper was one of Lord Vetinari's least liked and least used symbols. A question mark.

"If I told you there was a good reason for saying such untruths about you, would you be so upset then?"

"It seems like the damage would be done already, milord. So yes. Probably."

"Probably," the Patrician murmured.

Drumknott quietly started gathering up papers from the map table. Like everyone else who'd been around Vetinari the past weeks, he was getting nervous about the Patrician's – and this was a word Drumknott never thought he'd use for his master – _moodiness_. It got worse the longer Lady Hanna was away, though nobody was foolish enough to even whisper of cause and effect. Drumknott was the only person in Ankh-Morpork who knew for a fact the link _was_ there. He sent and received the clacks messages. There were some on the table that he tucked onto the stack of papers in his arms, destined for a fire.

The last one from Madam included: _I couldn't know that she would stumble upon them. Your auntie shouldn't have had them to begin with but I do have to look after you, don't I? And for that I need to know what you're up to. I truly had no idea she'd react how she did, with so much hurt pride. If you had to write such hateful things about her, perhaps you could have been more tactful..._

"Maybe," the clerk said without looking at the Patrician, "she would understand all this better than I would, milord."

It was a moment when Drumknott knew he was being too smart for his own good. He stared down at his shoes to avoid the stare of his master. It was one of the iciest stares Lord Vetinari was capable of.

Drumknott's shoulders tensed but he struck further out into the glacial waters he'd so foolishly dived into. "I was just thinking, milord. If _hypothetically_, you had to say such things about her ladyship..." He cringed, but the Patrician did nothing except continue his stare, "...but she knew for a fact you didn't really think that of her, then maybe she'd understand. She'd have to know the reason you're doing it, though. My sister says a couple always has to keep faith with each other." He fell into an embarrassed silence.

"Drumknott?"

"Yes, milord?"

"Are you giving me advice on women?"

"Oh no, milord."

The Patrician frowned for a few long, and for the clerk, agonizing moments. Then the air in the office seemed to thaw suddenly.

"Leaving the realm of hypothesis, I will tell you that you are an excellent clerk."

"Thank you, sir."

"When you do not attempt to give unwanted advice."

"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir."

The Patrician went slowly back to his desk, his hands clasped behind his back, his posture slightly stooped as if a lot was weighing on his shoulders. He settled into his chair and rested his elbows on the desktop.

A good deal of ruling Ankh-Morpork involved knowing the levers of the people around him, the little points of character, the needs and wants that motivated them to do what they did. And, if all went well, to do what _he_ wanted them to do. He knew Hanna quite well by now. Excellently, in fact. He knew her levers. She valued money, but less than she always claimed. She valued her professional reputation. She was willful and proud, had a quick temper, inconsistent manners, a morally questionable sense of humor and a talent for unintentionally creating sudden chaos.

In short, she was a Morporkian.

Morporkians were nothing if not practical and self-interested to the extreme. Hanna was also like this. She wouldn't have been such a successful seamstress if she wasn't. If she shook off the pride for one second and looked at things as he did – _practically_ – she would see the practical necessity for his letters to Lady Margolotta.

It was such a small, almost insignificant act, writing what he had. Words were powerful, yes, but these were such teeny tiny stones in a vast mosaic of (mis)information the Patrician carefully planned and laid out and cemented across the Disc. Hanna was only a side show, a single little piece of cut glass – triangular and very sharp, no doubt – that almost disappeared when inserted into the vast pattern. It was all a tapestry, a matrix, a game.

He glanced over at the table where the trolls and dwarfs were arrayed for battle on a slab of stone, a game of Thud in progress versus Uberwald.

Hanna was practical. She would choose self interest over hurt pride. With her, he could always count on that.

He _could_, couldn't he?

Her levers tipped back and forth in his mind like a see-saw.

"How upset _is_ she?" he asked, irritated that he was still thinking about this one little mosaic stone hopping out of the pattern. It should be content to stay small, to stay part of the whole, to stop _bothering_ him.

Drumknott wasn't sure he'd been addressed, but he answered anyway.

"She's bloody furious probably, my lord," he said. "Excuse my Klatchian."

Drumknott was excused from the Oblong Office with the advice to keep his Klatchian to himself in future. When he was alone, Lord Vetinari leaned back in his chair.

Bloody furious was furious indeed.

Well.

She wasn't the only one.


	13. The Riddle

**A-N:** A shorter chapter than usual below, because I divided a really long one. The end spurt is here! Thanks to all readers... (smile) **oOo**

**13. The Riddle**

"Jerky?"

What looked like a dried-out piece of shriveled human skin in stick form was thrust in Hanna's face. It smelled muffy. She wrinkled her nose and waved it away.

"No, thank you."

"You?" The stick hovered in front of Maltesi's bruised but healing face.

"Get that sh...thing out of my face. Please."

"Suit yerself."

They were well out of Pseudopolis and in the foothills of the Carrack Mountains, a tiny caravan made up of Hanna, Maltesi, the guide Mountain Man Griz and the Amazing Goat Lucy, who carried the food on her back. She was an accommodating goat.

Mountain Man Griz looked the part. He had the wild shock of gray-white beard down his chest, the inordinately long eyebrows, leather chaps and various useful utensils hanging from his belt. He clinked like a carillon when he walked.

Two hours earlier, he'd looked at the complete treasure map in order to plot the best way to get where the treasure was. He had a lot to say about it, most of it to Lucy. He seemed to have a close relationship with the goat.

"Well, looky, looky there, Lucy!" he'd cried. "Looks like the folks want to go through the pass 'tween the two worst mountains in them thar...mountains."

Lucy was a mountain goat. Sure-footed, true, proud. She was a white mountain goat and even-tempered for her kind. But then, she had trouble remembering what kind she was.

"Bah," said Lucy.

"I thought sheep went bah," said Maltesi.

"Lucy is multilingual," explained Mountain Man Griz. "Most intelligent goat on the Disc. Ain't ye, girl?"

Lucy seemed to think for a moment. "Woof."

Mountain Man Griz grinned proudly. "See?"

And so he'd explained partly to Hanna and Maltesi but mostly to Lucy that it would be several hours before they got through the pass between the mountains dominated on the one side by the Vicious Unibrow Hamsters and the other by the Vicious Carrack Goats, where the map implied the treasure could be found. There was a lot about a swamp and what looked like dead bodies but Mountain Man Griz didn't sound too worried about these.

"Standard on treasure maps," he said. "And with me, you need have no fear! I'm a man of the mountains. I know the rocks and the trees and the wind and the..."

So they walked along the brown grass, the path left behind an hour before. There were boulders scattered in the meadow, patches of pine trees, but nothing much else. Nobody lived that far out.

Mountain Man Griz kept up a running monologue with Lucy, who periodically inserted a "meow."

Hanna tramped along in her warm breeches and boots, a pack slung on her back. She didn't really know what she'd need if they did find the chocolate so she'd packed everything. A spade, a pick, a chisel. She glanced behind her. Maltesi wasn't limping but he still looked like a man who'd been tenderized a couple days ago. The bruises on his face had a purplish-yellow tint. He stomped along without complaining.

The merry group meandered through the foothills until the determined vertical thrust of rocks got so high that it was obvious even to city girl Hanna that they were in the pass between the two mountains on the map.

Mountain Man Griz pointed.

"There it is, Lucy. Home of the Vicious Carrack Goats. Ye think they'll welcome ye?"

"Neigh," said Lucy.

Hanna and Maltesi stared at the craggy mountain looming up beside them. According to the map, the entrance to whatever cave the treasure was in was on the hubward side. It looked like it would take awhile to get round back.

Here and there, malevolent, dark eyes peered out at them from scrub bushes and clefts.

**oOo**

Madam Meserole's study was transformed into something of a central command. She sat behind her desk and held court over a series of informants who she used at times to dig up information or run errands for her.

To keep Hanna's motivation tuned to the appropriate pitch, Madam had stayed in bed feigning weakness until the young woman had gone off on her...mission. It warmed the heart to see her dressed for the mountains, a pack on her back, looking rugged and hearty and determined. She'd kissed Madam on the forehead before she left.

Two runners panted in front of the desk. They'd run several miles each as the end of a long chain of boys and girls stationed at points all the way out to the Carracks.

One of the runners appeared to have a cold.

"Wipe your nose, Gilbert," said Madam.

The boy Gilbert dragged his sleeve across his nose. This didn't help. He offered Madam a hollow tube.

She accepted it fastidiously, unscrewed the end and glanced at the paper inside. A painful few moments of writing on the back, and she gave everything back to him.

"Sarah?"

The girl curtseyed before handing over her message tube.

"No reply," said Madam.

Another curtsey and both children were gone.

Madam leaned back in her chair and waited. Timing was everything. It had been the real key all along.

**oOo**

The Vicious Goats of the Carrack Mountains allowed Mountain Man Griz and company to get about twenty feet up the hubward side before sending down a group of red-eyed, bad tempered fellow goats to block the exits. They were rams. They had big horns that they sharpened now and then on bits of granite.

The humans clustered for safety.

"Um...what do we do now, Mr. Griz?" asked Hanna.

"Have no fear! I'm a man of the mountains. I know the rocks and the trees and the wind and the..."

"Goats? Do you know goats?" asked Maltesi. He had a spade in his hands, ready to swing.

"I know Lucy."

"Bah," said Lucy.

"Lucy doesn't even speak goat! What the hell use is she going to be?"

Mountain Man Griz grinned. "Just you wait. Lucy, you ready? Take it away!"

She bounded up on a flat granite shelf. Her hoofs clattered as she turned her back on the watching rams and wriggled her little puffy tail.

There were snorts.

Lucy looked at them over her shoulder. She blinked, her long lashes brushing her upper cheek.

Several of the rams clopped their hoofs. They were getting excited. It was a male goat kind of mountain. Girl goats didn't go for the vicious mountain goat environment. They wanted a nice meadow, the occasional bit of trash to nibble on. It was a long time since many of the Carrack goats had seen a female.

Mountain Man Griz whispered, "I'm gonna git the beat on for Lucy. You slide on out thataway..." He pointed toward a rocky ledge, "...when the goats're distracted. Got it?"

Maltesi and Hanna nodded.

Griz gave Lucy a thumbs up. Then he started clapping. Short, rhythmic claps at just the right speed to be catchy. Echoes of applause bounced off the mountains. The goats looked around, but settled back on Lucy because she got the beat. A hoof stomped on the granite. Her head swung.

Hanna took Maltesi's hand and they crept out of the circle of goats. They were ignored. Lucy had turned around again and was swinging her tail to the beat.

The treasure map showed a crevice in the mountain that was shaped like a big lightning bolt, the kind little kids always draw. They found it after a good deal of stumbling around on the rocks.

It was a dark, cold split in the rock. The wind made ghostly sounds when it blew through. At least, Hanna hoped it was only the wind.

"Are ghosts guarding this place?" she asked.

The wind careened around them.

"Yes, actually."

The voice wasn't Maltesi's.

"Bloody hell."

That was Maltesi. He held onto Hanna with one hand and a shovel with the other. The shovel wasn't going to be very useful against the creature that materialized in front of them. It was see-through in a milky cataract eye ball sort of way and it wore the ghostly version of a full pirate captain get up, complete with ghost parrot. The ghost wobbled. That is, bits of it kept disappearing and re-appearing in different places on the body, as if somewhere in there, the ghost had forgot how he was supposed to be put together.

At the moment, his left hand was sticking out of his right temple. It waved at Hanna and Maltesi.

"Hello. I'm so glad to see you. Nobody visits me anymore. It's so sad. Do you think it's because I'm scary?"

The ghost looked at them hopefully.

"Um...your hand is on your head," said Hanna.

"Is that scary?"

"Not really."

"Oh."

The hand disappeared and re-appeared in the proper place. The ghost parrot on his shoulder appeared to be sleeping. It was lying sideways but still managed to stay attached to the ghost's doublet.

Maltesi took his spade off guard.

"I suppose there's some sort of bleeding curse on the treasure, right? It's just my luck. This'll make my decade, you know? I was just thinking there wasn't enough stress in my life, what with getting blackmailed, trapped in a tunnel, almost killed by dwarf thieves, beaten up by the Patrician's lackeys and just when we got past the vicious mountain goats and were about to get our hands on the stuff that's banned everywhere and will probably get my ships confiscated...." He took a breath so he could finish, "...there's a ghost. Beautiful."

"That kind of attitude isn't going to help us, Anthony," said Hanna.

The ghost was now standing on his left leg. His right leg was where his nose used to be.

"Baybe he'll feel better whed he's heard the riddle."

"Ahhhhhh!" Maltesi threw the spade on the ground. "A riddle! Wonderful! And if we answer wrong, do you get to feed on our souls for all eternity? I was really hoping for a happy ending to all this."

"Anthony!"

"It's better than waiting around for an Assassin to slit my throat. And if a ghost is feeding on our souls for all eternity, at least I'll have the satisfaction of knowing that Vetinari doesn't get you either."

The ghost raised his eyebrows at Hanna.

"Who's Vetidari?"

"This is not the time to discuss that!" cried Hanna. "All right? If you bring him up again, Anthony, then get out. I can do this myself. And you--" She pointed at the ghost. "Get your bloody leg back in the right place. It's not scary at all."

The ghost looked crestfallen. His leg materialized next to his other one.

"What's the damn riddle?" said Maltesi.

"It's a fun one. I think you'll like it. Oh, and yes, I'm afraid I'll have to feed on your souls for eternity if you get it wrong." The ghost looked embarrassed. "Sorry."

"Right." Maltesi sighed. "Get on with it."

The ghost rubbed his hands. Or tried to. They went through each other.

"Good. So. This is a great one. I made it up myself." He cleared his throat.

_I have no eyes and no brain and I often don't have a heart. _

_The longer I live, the more patient I become._

_I am always sought and am found only when no one is looking._

_Who am I?_

**oOo**

The Patrician was pacing. He reached a wall of the Oblong Office, spun around and paced to the other.

Clacks messages were spread out on the desk. Hanna and Maltesi seen leaving the city for the Carrack Mountains. Things were obviously entering the end phase.

That was fine by Lord Vetinari. He was looking forward to the entire matter being settled at last.

The problem, he could see now, was lag time. He had as much information as he could get out of Pseudopolis, but a good deal was muddled purposefully, and by someone who did it better than he did.

He stopped at a wall, turned and marched back.

She'd timed everything so perfectly, hadn't she? He imagined what she'd told Hanna at the start, the words that got the seamstress primed for Madam's little extra game. How he'd first noticed her, the gifts, the file and yes, she'd probably read some of his letters that he knew she never destroyed. They were all true – he wasn't foolish enough to lie to Madam – but it was nothing Hanna needed to know. He assumed there had been intimate conversations of the sort referred to as woman-to-woman, and then, conveniently, at just the right moment, the letters to Margolotta were revealed. And Hanna was primed.

Then it was his turn. Vetinari's agents delivered news of Hanna's antics on the treasure hunt, and almost on cue, Madam greased the wheels with her private observations of her behavior. It was a masterful use of timing that obscured cause and effect. The effect usually came first so he would get...irritated, concerned, angry. Then the cause was hinted at, and he drew the proper conclusions.

Which were muddled by that most unreasonable of forces: emotion.

He paused at the window.

He was more disturbed by his own blindness the past weeks than by Madam's little side game. He really couldn't afford to stop thinking properly. Not for a second.

Hanna couldn't either. He assumed she still didn't know all of what was at stake, but she was practical. She would do what was expected of her.

He imagined the road to Pseudopolis somewhere on the other side of the forest of clacks towers outside his windows.

"Lamb, use your _head_."


	14. Big Choice 1

**A-N**: More drama for **intriKate**! **Ivy** – you're far too smart for your own good. (smile). **icyinferno** – Once every week or so is pretty respectable for updating, though this story has taken forever to post. It's almost done, though. Enjoy! **oOo**

**14. Big Choice #1**

"Death," said Maltesi firmly.

"What?" Hanna pulled him away from the Ghost. "You can't answer just like that! We have to think about it."

"What's there to think about? I saw an iconograph of the old Prince of Eternity. No eyes, no brain, and I couldn't see under the robe but I assume he didn't have a heart. He's known for being patient, right? He waits around with his scythe until somebody dies, and you never know when he's coming. There."

Maltesi looked over at the Ghost. The Ghost gave a "could be" shrug.

"Is that your answer?"

"Wait," said Hanna. "People don't seek Death. He said he's always sought."

"Soldiers," said Maltesi.

"Soldiers don't want to die. That's why they kill people, isn't it?"

"Don't know. I don't like soldiers."

"It could be Io," she said. "Blind Io. I've heard he hasn't got much in the brain department and he can't see very well."

"He's got eyes, they're just not attached to his face."

Hanna and Maltesi fell silent, thinking. The Ghost sat on a convenient rocky ledge and looked on with interest. His left arm floated to the middle of his chest and pierced it like an arrow.

A couple minutes later, Maltesi said, "Is there a time limit?"

"Oh, no." The Ghost smiled. "That would spoil the fun, wouldn't it? I've been sitting here for years and years waiting for somebody to brave the Vicious Mountain Goats. Do you think I'd put a time limit just when things started getting interesting?"

Hanna rubbed her face and paced to the entrance to the cliff and tried to think.

No eyes, no brain, often heartless. Often. Not always.

She looked out over the landscape, the valley laid out below, other mountains reaching higher the further back they were in the range. Somewhere beyond there was the Hub. The top of the world.

Not always heartless, she was thinking. Maybe they'd been taking this too literally.

So, no eyes – can't see. No brain – can't think. Often heartless...Well, people who are heartless could be called mean, evil, merciless, cruel. Vetinari.

Maltesi spoke up. "I heard there's a kind of mountain troll that doesn't have eyes and they're --"

"Anthony! I'm trying to think!"

_The longer I live, the more patient I am._ Hanna leaned against the rock entrance, her arms folded. Who got more patient with time? It reminded her of something Mrs. Palm had told her once, that people either got harder or softer with age. But patience? Hanna had come across a lot of ornery, impatient old people. It had nothing to do with age. Skip it.

Always sought and found when no one was looking.

Always sought. What were people always looking for? Money. But that turned up in normal places. Treasure, but that didn't fit with the other parts of the riddle.

Happiness.

Hanna blinked. She didn't know where the thought had come from, but she knew she was on the right track. She was too practical. So was Maltesi. Riddles were never literal.

She looked at Maltesi. He was sitting on a rock with his head in his hands. She didn't know if he was thinking or nursing his pains. He really shouldn't have come along. He should've stayed in bed. That he did come was just proof that he was hard-headed and slightly mad and...

"Oh, am I dumb."

The Ghost got up. His left arm began a slow journey lower on his body that promised to end in interesting anatomical places.

"You look like you have an idea," he said happily.

Maltesi looked up.

Hanna was shaking her head. "Yes, yes, yes. It all makes sense. Dense stupid idiot me." She sighed.

"What?" demanded Maltesi.

"The answer is Love, right?"

The Ghost grinned.

"Are you sure?" asked Maltesi. "I thought it might be this one Great White Whale they're always trying to catch off the coast of--"

"I know I'm right." Hanna nodded. "Love is blind, it makes us act stupid, it's heartless, and people are dumb enough to always look for it." She paused. "The patience part... Well, I suppose that could be the quieter, sort of domestic love that comes after the flashy bits at the start of a romance are gone."

She braced herself.

The Ghost trotted over to a large pyramid-shaped outcropping in the cave, waved his hand in front of it and said, "Voila!"

The peak of the pyramid wavered and disappeared. What was left was a shelf. It contained several interesting items. But that wasn't half as arresting as the cloud of fragrance that rushed through the cave. It was a thick smell, but not sweet. It sang of darkness and jungles, tangled vines and carnivorous plants, soil and long rains. Hanna had never smelled anything like it.

The smell could be pinpointed relatively accurately to a tablet, several inches thick, the size of a large ledger and wrapped in what looked like banana tree leaves.

Maltesi stepped up to the shelf but looked afraid to put out his hand.

"Hell. Hershebian Chocolate. I never thought I'd see the stuff." He took a deep whiff of it.

"It's a rather concentrated smell, I'm afraid," said the Ghost. "It'll go away in a few minutes. It has been capped up for a hundred years, you know." The ghost shrugged. "Gets muffy in the old treasure chamber."

Next to the chocolate was a necklace. Nobody could ever wear it, as far as Hanna could make out, because the thing looked like it weighed a ton. Of diamonds.

On the shelf, there was also a chamber pot. It wasn't gold or silver or jewel encrusted. It was just a chamber pot.

"What's that for?" asked Maltesi.

"I thought some people that, you know, traveled a long way, they might treasure decent facilities." The Ghost smiled brightly. "So. You can only take one thing with you. Go ahead and pick." His smile widened. "Go ahead. Pick anything you want."

Hanna and Maltesi exchanged glances.

"Is this another test?" he said.

The Ghost looked at the roof of the cave. "Oh. Maybe."

Hanna reached out for the chocolate but Maltesi stopped her.

"That necklace'd keep Madam in champagne for the rest of her life. Who needs the chocolate?"

"She does. That's what we came for."

"The necklace has got to be worth..." Maltesi stared at it. There was a sparkle in his eye. "Three, four hundred ships. Loaded."

"I'm not interested in ships." Hanna reached out for the chocolate again.

Maltesi grasped her arms.

"Hanna, listen, you don't have to do this if you don't want to. Don't let them push you around. Make your own decisions for once."

The Ghost sidled up to them, his transparent arms folded.

"Think about how you live," said Maltesi, "Ankh-Morpork and the Patrician and all of that crap you told me about. And then, I want you to imagine finally getting one over on him."

Hanna frowned.

"You're not trapped," he said. "You can just leave. That necklace would pay for a hundred broken contracts. If the Patrician can't appreciate you, find someone who can."

Just pay out the contract and leave. It sounded easy to Hanna. Maybe it would be better to cut it all short. She shouldn't give the Patrician the satisfaction of having his little seamstress to be condescending to. His _lamb_.

Maltesi folded his hands over hers.

"You don't have to go back at all if you don't want to. Pseudopolis isn't bad once you get used to the traffic. I travel a lot for business, but...maybe you could come along. If you wanted. I was planning to go down to Al-Khali next month. Have you ever been to Klatch?"

Hanna looked at the Ghost. He raised his milky eyebrows. The ghost parrot on his shoulder stirred, squawked weakly, and fell back asleep.

In her professional life pre-Patrician, a lot of men had come her way. Various proposals had followed not far behind. Marriage proposals, a prominent spot in a harem, permanent "companion" kept in a secluded chateau, all expenses paid. She'd refused everything until Lord Vetinari had conned her into accepting his "mutually beneficial business arrangement."

And now there was Maltesi with a new one. Sail away. Hit the high seas. With the proceeds from the sale of a diamond necklace that must be worth millions. It was tempting. She'd got a whiff of freedom on the salt air that night on the Rim Ocean.

She looked at the necklace, and then back up at Maltesi. The bruises were still obvious and his upper lip was still slightly swollen, but his eyes were inflamed with something that looked like a mix of hope and madness. He'd taken quite a bruising for her, that was a fact. Come to think of it, she'd taken a bruising for Vetinari when he was overthrown. Would he ever take one for her?

No.

There must have been some change on her face because Maltesi started to smile.

It would certainly show the Vetinari-Meserole faction that Hanna was not to be trapped. Manipulated by business or emotions. She could turn her back on the intrigues. Make a choice for herself, for once. The Patrician wouldn't really _do_ anything to them because she wasn't important enough to warrant it. There'd be some damage control, public opinion spinning and so on, but in the end, he would wash his hands of her and that would be that.

Wouldn't it?

But then, Madam was an old woman with a strong will and a weak body. No wonder she wanted the best for her nephew. No wonder she pushed Hanna toward him. Havelock seemed to be her last connection to Stanwyck, who she obviously loved...

"Idiot!" she cried.

Maltesi dropped her hands. "You don't have to be that way about it."

"No. I meant...me..."

Maybe auntie wasn't auntie at all. All the concern for her and the Patrician could just as well be called...motherly.

Hanna hauled the bar of chocolate from the shelf and shoved it into her pack.

"It's all tempting, Anthony, but... I can't really explain it."

"Right." He sighed.

The pack with the chocolate was strapped onto Hanna's back. She shimmied back into her coat only then, and buttoned up. She wanted the chocolate pack as protected as possible until she got it back to Madam. It felt like she had an encyclopedia strapped to her back.

The Ghost clapped his hands. It didn't sound like anything.

"Good show. The necklace is cursed, you know." He shrugged. "You have to have cursed treasure. It's part of the rules."

The hand Maltesi held out to touch the necklace froze.

"I can't even touch it?"

"Unless you want your hand vaporized."

"Anthony, come on!"

A teenage boy put down his dime novel when he saw the tiny figures of Maltesi and Hanna scrambling out of the cave in the distance. Her Octiron blonde hair was like a beacon. The boy climbed on a rock and started waving his red and white flags in a particular pattern.

**oOo**

In Ankh-Morpork, the burliest members of the Guild of Dock Workers spread out across the piers.

The head of the group was getting restless because he couldn't let his men loose yet. He was missing a vital piece of information: Which ships his lads were supposed to confiscate indefinitely until the contents of the cargo holds were recorded, collated and reported.

The Patrician had made a friendly request to wait until one of his agents delivered the news. Friendly requests were all right by the dock workers, who were really hoping to find some contraband. They were drawing lots on who'd get to do the finger chopping.

**oOo**

Lucy's dance number still mesmerized the Vicious Mountain Goats of the Carracks. Hanna and Maltesi made a thumbs up sign at Mountain Man Griz, and scrambled down the side of the mountain without the goats so much as turning their heads.

At the entrance to the mountain pass, they paused to catch their breaths. Hanna looked like a hunchback with the chocolate pack under her coat.

"Let me carry that," said Maltesi.

Hanna hugged herself. "It's not heavy."

They started off again. Double-marching through the pass, around the snaggle-toothed bushes, out into a boulder meadow. Maltesi was in the lead. He went around an upright boulder bigger than a house...and stopped short. Hanna walked into him.

"What's wrong?"

The crossbow answered her question.

Lester was on a brown horse that looked as drab as he did but much more energetic. He looked like he knew how to use a crossbow (he did) and he was smiling.

"Well, Anthony. How are you old chap? Still profiting from your father's memory?"

"At least my father's worth working for. Yours is a right prick, you know that?"

"You never get tired of telling me."

Lester's last name was Polk. He didn't have a mind for business like his father Phineas but he had talent in the sneak around causing other people trouble department.

"Lady Hanna," said Lester, "I'd like to say how nice it's been watching you during your stay in Pseudopolis. I was happy to see you develop a taste for sailors."

He grinned. Maltesi made a move toward the horse but Lester pointed his crossbow at him.

"I should tell you that the safety catch is in the off position." He waved the crossbow. "You might want to get your hands up."

"You always were a slimy bastard, Lester."

"Hands up, Anthony. That's a good lad. See? Co-operation is nice. Oh, you don't need to bother, milady. I see you have something interesting under your coat. Besides the usual, ha ha. So, if you could please hand over the--"

There was a hissing sound and a _zing_ as something metallic glanced off the side of the rock just behind Lester. The horse yanked at the bit, but he got it under control again.

A short throwing knife lay on the ground.

Another hiss, another _zing_ and Lester, his head down, suddenly brought the horse around and scooped Hanna over the saddle. He took off down the hill.

Maltesi lunged for the knife and ran after them, shouting curses and trying to take aim. He wasn't trained in knife throwing, which was why his one attempt missed the mark by a long shot.

A word about Hanna and horses.

_Catastrophe_.

She was a city girl. She never needed to actually be on a horse. The animals were used to pull carriages or carts. As far as she was concerned, she had no business on the back of one. The one time she'd tried to ride a Palace thoroughbred had ended in a rather embarrassing episode the Patrician now referred to only as "The Incident."

She was screaming because she was slung on her stomach, her head bouncing near a front leg of Lester's horse, and she didn't have anything to hold onto except the saddle straps or Lester's leg. She opted for his leg. Her own legs flailed out on the other side of the horse and she was sure, dead certain that when the brakes were pulled, she'd go flying off. Lester held her by the belt on her breeches but this promised to cause other problems.

Maltesi tripped down the hill. He wasn't in a condition to run very far, adrenalin or no. The horse with Lester and Hanna was off in the distance already. He stopped and doubled over, coughing. He hurt like hell.

Hoof beats came up behind him. They'd been there all along, he just hadn't noticed.

He was holding his side, gasping. "Get it over with, you jackals. But I'll tell you this..." He straightened up, "...somebody'll go down with me this time."

"Steady, Mr. Maltesi."

Griffin held up his hands.

A flashback. Boots, knees, black eyes. Maltesi didn't drop his fighting stance but he also didn't rush at the horse.

"You were on the docks, weren't you? When they jumped me. You helped..."

"Yes, sir. I was able to do some small service. I'm Griffin. This is Dennis."

He waved at the second horse. Dennis bowed politely in the saddle.

"We're on your side, sir," he said.

"I wouldn't say that exactly," said Griffin. "Let's just say that we all want Lady Hanna back safely."

"You're not Polk's lads?" asked Maltesi suspiciously.

"I was sent by the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork," said Griffin.

"I thought he sent the bastards who ambushed me."

"I can assure you, he didn't. It wasn't very sporting."

Dennis stayed silent until Maltesi confronted him.

"And you? Let me guess. You belong to Madam Meserole."

Dennis smiled. "A very good guess."

"Right." Maltesi got beside Dennis' horse and got a grip on the back of the saddle. "I wouldn't trust either one of you in a dark room, but we got to get Hanna back. Lester's a right bastard. Who knows what he'll..."

Dennis helped him up. Maltesi sprawled uncomfortably behind him.

Griffin had a soothing smile on his face.

"No rush, sir. Slow and steady wins the race"

"The hell it does. Why didn't you nail Lester with those knives, anyway?"

"He isn't very useful dead."

"You _wanted_ him to take her? What kind of game--?"

"I think we've given them enough of a sporting start, hm?" said Griffin.

He and Dennis spurred their horses.


	15. Big Choice 2

**A-N**: The update is here, late because of our dear ffnet. Welcome to the Seamstress Series **outofivanhoe**! Thanks for the cookies, **Estriel**, and I'd love to try the chocolate in Berlin, **anna**. So...only a couple chapters left after this one. This is one of my favorite chapters in the whole story. Hope you enjoy it! **oOo**

**15.** **Big Choice #2**

Lester rode straight through Pseudopolis, ignoring one-way traffic, and down to the docks. Hanna wasn't screaming anymore because she'd run out of breath. She gritted her teeth and held on and called on several gods she might have offended in recent years to make some deals that would come into effect if she got off the horse alive.

They reached Polk's end of the docks. The horse galloped past the workers, who looked up in surprise, and clattered up a gangplank onto one of the ships. The plank was quickly pulled in and the crew on board started pulling up anchor.

Maltesi, Dennis and Griffin raced onto the docks in time to see the ship push off slowly into the river. They could see the horse on deck. Hanna and Lester were gone.

Maltesi was about to get himself off Dennis' horse and make a swim for it but Griffin pointed down the docks.

"Which of your ships can be ready the fastest?"

"The Star, the Ankh, the Jewel…doesn't matter. Just get me down there!"

**oOo**

A large crystal bowl full of peppermint candies was the center of attention in Madam Meserole's study. The children raced in from their stations throughout the city and in the countryside as soon as word passed down that Hanna and Maltesi were heading for the docks. Grubby hands scooped up candies and deposited them in grubby pockets. There were sandwiches and fruit that were consumed on the spot, Madam's orders. No peppermints until each child had a sandwich and a piece of wholesome, nutritious fruit.

A little girl was sobbing next to the candy bowl.

"Auntie! Gilbert took my share!"

"Gilbert!" scolded Madam. "Give Tina back her share."

Gilbert still had the runny nose problem. He let it drip in unpleasant ways.

"She dint run as far's I did."

Madam narrowed her eyes at him. "Gilbert."

He squirmed under the stare, then reached in his pocket.

"Stupid candy. I don't want it anyway." He tossed it at Tina. The candies sprawled out across the carpet and the other children dived for it, shouting.

Madam was about to deliver a moment of justice to Gilbert with the flat of her hand when a messenger arrived. He told her the news.

"Good," she said. "Get everything moving at the docks. Send a clacks when it's done."

She started corralling the children into the foyer. They wouldn't be needed anymore.

**oOo**

Phineas Polk sighed and shook his head.

"Lester. The _treasure_. I asked you to get the treasure."

They were in a comfortable sitting room on board Polk's ship the Merryweather. Lester cleared his throat and was about to say something but Polk was on his feet bending over Hanna's hand.

"Pardon the enthusiasm of my son, Lady Hanna. Strict instructions are sometimes…unfathomable to him." He sighed again.

Lester pointed at Hanna's hunchback.

"She does have the treasure, dad."

Polk ignored him.

"This turn of events was unforeseeable, milady. Believe me, the last thing I wish is to cause you any harm or inconvenience. The Polk Shipping Co. is a proud friend of Ankh-Morpork, and Lord Vetinari, of course. I'm embarrassed by all of this. I really am."

"He's going to skin you," said Hanna.

"I don't think so. We've had some fruitful negotiations. But first, perhaps I could offer some tea. Lester, go get the tea. Your coat, milady?"

Hanna hugged herself tightly. Polk smiled.

"Later, then." He folded his hands in his lap. "Despite the circumstances of this little get together, I am delighted to finally meet you in person. I've heard…and seen…so much about you. Pseudopolis is honoured by your presence. Our modest city is not often graced by Ankh-Mopork nobility. May I ask how long you plan to--?"

"What negotiations? His lordship would never talk to someone like you. Anthony said--"

"Oh, I wouldn't listen to too much Anthony said. Did you know that I was on his father's crew? In the glory days of the Ankh under Captain Maltesi. Anthony was almost like a son to me."

"I seriously doubt that."

"It's true. I was, in fact, the First Mate. There is, of course, a small problem with being second in command."

Lester arrived with a tea tray.

"You can't be first until the captain's out of the way," said Hanna.

"Correct, milady. Sugar? Fine. You appear to be thinking that my ambition had something to do with the Captain's death, but that is not true. I left the Ankh several years before he died. A heart attack. A natural death as far as I know. Mine was not an altogether friendly parting, but I did not help along the Captain's illness, no matter what our dear Anthony thinks. His suspicion has weighed on my heart all these years. It has coloured his opinion of the work I've been trying to do. Organizing the docks for the good of the workers. As a guild woman, you certainly know how important it is to be organized."

Hanna pretended to sip her tea, her lips on the edge but the liquid only touching her mouth. She trusted Polk like she trusted a kick in the backside.

"_You_ sent people to have him roughed up," she said.

"_Softened_ up," said Polk. "It was necessary to make him more open to the precarious situation he is in. Here and in Ankh-Morpork. Lord Vetinari was not, as you might imagine, pleased with your rendezvous."

"What did you negotiate?"

"Ah, yes." Polk set aside his tea. The cabinet to his left was close enough for him to reach it without getting up. He took out a stack of iconographs.

"These are all originals. The copies have been destroyed, as promised."

Hanna looked through them, her blood rising. Her and Maltesi in every shot, candid iconographs from practically everywhere they'd been together the past weeks.

"You took these?"

"Lester. He is a passable iconographer. Lord Vetinari was quite interested in the more…revealing images."

Staring at a nude iconograph of herself and Maltesi, Hanna felt herself blush. She glanced up and saw the smirking smile on Polk's face.

"You _sodding_--"

"I spared him the worst of the Bath House ones," he said. "I do have a heart, milady. And I was quite counting on Lord Vetinari having one as well."

"Good luck."

"Thank you, but I have it already. You see, his lordship and I agreed that if you give me the treasure you have so cozily strapped to your back, I will give you the iconographs. A fair trade. There are other elements of the deal, but they aren't relevant at the moment."

"Some deal. Your Lester wanted to steal it in the mountains."

Polk held his hands out. "You can't blame a gentleman for trying. But as it is, we are now back to the original deal. Once I have the treasure, you may leave the ship with the iconographs without a mussed hair on your very blonde head." He frowned. "Except for the ones Lester caused. I apologize again. I believe I read somewhere that you are no equestrian."

"You really destroyed the copies?"

"I swear it. You have my word as a gentleman."

"And that's worth how much?"

Polk smiled at her. "You are a delight, milady. So…feisty. I almost regret that I'm a happily married man. Alas, I believe we've been chatting long enough." He gathered up the iconographs in a stack on the table. "We shall do the trade and I'll set you on pier number --"

The entire ship lurched suddenly, and there was a sound like something soft splattering against the hull. Lester rushed in a moment later.

"We're under attack!"

Polk got up just as the ship lurched again. "This has truly got out of hand," he sighed.

Hanna scooped up the iconographs and followed him onto the deck.

It was the Jewel of Istanzia, about the same size as the Merryweather. The cannons were pointed straight at Polk's people and there was Maltesi, striding up and down the deck, shouting orders to a crew of humans, dwarfs, trolls and golems.

"TWENTY DEGREES RIMWARDS!"

The cannons were adjusted.

The ships were still far enough away that Polk had to shout.

"Anthony! Stop this nonsense! You're an embarrassment to the profession!"

"FIRE!"

The cannons were lit, there was a rumble, and then…

Hanna was the first to process what exactly it was that the cannons belched. A smelly cloud of reddish pink shot through the air toward the deck of the Merryweather. She dived for cover.

Polk didn't. The prawns rained down around him. He brushed several off his shoulder.

"Fine, Anthony!" he shouted. "We could have handled this like civilized gentlemen but I see that is impossible. I'm warning you, we have more to offer than prawns! Lester!"

"Yes, dad?"

"Load the cannons."

"Um…" Lester looked slightly embarrassed. "We took the cannonballs off so we could get more cargo on."

"We have no cannonballs."

"I'm afraid not."

"What do we have?"

The Jewel was floating closer. Maltesi's men were busy re-loading the cannons. Many had clothes pins on their noses.

Polk grabbed his son by the collar.

"_What_ do we have?"

"Cabbage," said Lester. "That's it. The Merryweather just came in with a Sto Plains shipment, remember?"

Polk released his son and tried to control his breathing.

"Cabbages are _like_ cannon," said Lester helpfully.

"Fine. Fine. And what kind of cabbages do we have?"

"I believe they're red."

"Red cabbage. At least they're a threatening colour." Polk pinched the bridge of his nose. "Load the cannon, then."

Lester scurried off.

"Perhaps you could speak with Anthony when he gets closer," Polk said to Hanna. "This is really quite ridiculous."

"I don't know if he'll listen to me. I think he's having fun."

Somebody located a tricorder hat and a sword and gave them to Maltesi. He was wearing his glasses, but otherwise, he looked the part of a brave ship's captain. Or a studious pirate.

The sword was thrust in the air.

"Ready!" he called.

"Please give it a try, milady," said Polk. "Do you know how hard it is to eradicate the smell of spoiled prawns?"

"I think he wants to play pirate," said Hanna. "He won't listen to me."

"FIRE!"

The volley of prawns went a bit high, hit the sails and blubbered onto the deck.

"Are we ready?" Polk demanded. His crew gave a thumbs up.

"Watch out, Anthony!" Hanna shouted. "He's got--"

Polk gave the command to fire.

At the series of booms from the Merryweather cannon, the crew of the Jewel took cover. Except Maltesi, who was shouting for his men to reload. The cabbages were more dangerous than the prawns. The ones that didn't explode immediately were like two pound balls shot at an uncomfortable velocity. They went splat when they impacted with the Jewel. A golem was knocked over.

Maltesi speared a cabbage in the air with his sword.

"Bring her in closer!" he ordered.

The Jewel was getting so close to the Merryweather that they didn't need to shout to communicate from one ship to the other. Maltesi waved for a couple trolls to get the gangplank.

"Are you finished, Anthony?" asked Polk.

"Just showing you we mean business."

"I expect full compensation for the cabbages and I want your men cleaning up these awful prawns."

Hanna realized that she was still clutching the iconographs. She shoved them hurriedly in her coat pocket and hoped Polk didn't see.

Maltesi was joined on the deck by Griffin, who whispered something in his ear. Maltesi nodded. The gangplank was extended.

"All right, Polk! We'll pay for the clean up. We'll forget about the whole thing. I just want Lady Hanna back safely. Send her over and we're square."

"I'm glad to see you being reasonable for once." Polk turned to Hanna. "The treasure, please, milady."

The crews of both ships got the gangplank attached. There was 20 feet of river water between them.

Hanna held the front of her coat closed.

"I'm not giving you anything. I don't believe Lord Vetinari made a deal with you, and if he did, he's an even bigger bastard than I thought he was."

"I assure you that we do have a deal."

Hanna tried to get to the gangplank but he held her tightly by the arm.

"Milady. Please. Don't make this difficult."

Maltesi was up on the side of his ship.

"Hanna, let him have it."

"What?"

"The treasure's not important. Just let him have it and come over."

"I didn't go through all this to give it to him!"

"It doesn't matter." Maltesi went to the foot of the gangplank. "Just give it to him and come on over."

"No!"

"Please," said Polk, "listen to the young man. He's being smart for once."

Hanna stared at Maltesi. He was smiling with encouragement and motioning for her to take off her coat. Polk was doing the same thing. She slowly started unbuttoning it.

"That's a girl," said Maltesi.

Polk just smiled.

"I'm going to make Lord Vetinari's life a living hell until he hangs you out to dry," she snapped.

"Whatever you say, milady."

Hanna dropped her coat on the deck and slipped the pack off her shoulders. Polk slung it over his.

"Thank you, milady. You're free to go."

Hanna started for the gangplank. Griffin watched everything from the navigation deck of the Jewel.

"Don't forget your coat, milady!" he called.

She scooped it up and stepped onto the plank. It was a bit too narrow for her taste. She looked down at the water.

"Don't look down," called Maltesi. "Just come on over. That's right. One step at a time. But not too slow. Come on, Hanna."

He went a few steps out on the plank and held his hands out for her. She trotted up to him too fast and they teetered for a moment before he pulled her onto the Jewel.

"Take the plank down," he ordered. "Move us out." The crew scurried around with the ropes and sails.

Maltesi reached into her coat pocket and pulled out the iconographs. He waved them at Griffin on the navigation deck. Griffin started signalling with semaphore flags. A man picked it up at a clacks tower on land, and he directed the signals further. In the direction of Ankh-Morpork.

Looking smug, Polk waved at the Jewel.

"Thank you, Anthony, for an amusing afternoon. Lady Hanna, it was a pleasure. My apologies once again for the inconvenience."

"You remember what I said!" she called back. "I wouldn't sleep with the lights off from now on if I were you."

Maltesi squeezed her hand. "It's all right."

She spun on him. "What about Madam? What about the--"

He put a finger to his lips and pointed.

Another ship approached the Merryweather, a sleek thing loaded with men. They were carrying crossbows. Dennis was standing in the prow and he was wearing some kind of uniform.

"What's Dr. Bayles doing there?" asked Hanna.

Polk frowned down at the ship.

"What is the meaning of this?"

Something flashed in Dennis' hand. A badge.

"Pseudopolis River Watch, sir."

"There's no such thing," said Polk.

"We're new." Dennis smiled. "We have a report that contraband material is on your ship. Do we have permission to board?"

"Of course not! This is ridiculous." Polk pointed at the Jewel. "If you want contraband, scratch the surface of any of Mr. Maltesi's ships."

"Sorry, sir, but the report is about you." Dennis' ship was up along side the Merryweather. Several of his men threw ropes up and started climbing.

"I did not give you permission to board," said Polk.

"The regulations say if we have due cause, we can board without permission."

Dennis' men poured onto the Merryweather. Dennis scrambled up one of the ropes and hopped down beside Polk.

"Can I search your pack, there, sir?"

"Of course you can't. Lester! Get the lads together and--"

"Sir, I suggest you open the pack."

On the Jewel, Hanna looked at Maltesi. He smiled down at her.

"Beautiful, isn't it?"

"Is there really a Pseudopolis River Watch?"

"As of this morning, apparently. Madam Meserole seemed to have something to do with it."

Polk was yanking the straps of the pack and Dennis was yanking back.

"Please, sir. You only have to open it. Then we'll move onto the cargo hold."

"This is a disgrace! I will have my lawyers on your neck within five minutes of getting on land."

Dennis finally pulled out a knife and sliced open the canvas pack. He ripped the fabric, took a look, and straightened up.

"Could you tell me what that is, sir?"

"It's a book. The Quantum Weather book, to be exact. Are books on the contraband list?"

"You wrap your books in banana leaves, sir?"

Polk looked puzzled, then looked inside the pack. Then he brought the whole thing up to his nose. He turned pale.

"But this is…"

"Hershebian chocolate, yes, sir." Dennis waved to his men. "I'm afraid that's on the top of our list. We'll have to take you down to the watchhouse."

Polk dropped the pack and pointed over the water at Hanna.

"She brought it onto my ship! It's not my chocolate."

"But it _is_ your ship."

He grasped Polk's arm, but Polk resisted.

"This is entrapment! I want my lawyers!"

Griffin reappeared on the deck of the Jewel. He waved and called, "Mr. Polk!"

"Who the devil are you?"

"Lord Vetinari sends his friendly greetings, sir."

Polk stopped struggling. He went pale a second time.

Hanna had a malicious smile on her face. She didn't know who Griffin was, but it was obvious that the whole thing was sewn up between the Patrician and Madam Meserole. There was no way Polk was going to get out of it, lawyers or no.

She waved at him. "Thanks for the tea, Mr. Polk!"

Maltesi saluted just before Dennis led Polk to a cluster of armed men, who lowered him onto the police boat.

Griffin introduced himself to Hanna and shook hands with Maltesi.

"I have a small tip for you, Mr. Maltesi. There will be a routine search of your ships in the Ankh-Morpork docks one week from today. After that, there may be periodic surprise searches. His lordship feels he's overstepping his authority by warning you about an action of the Guild of Dock Workers, but his good judgement was overruled by other considerations. His lordship also cordially invites you to visit him for a small tete-a-tete at the Winter Palace should you ever decide to set foot inside the Ankh-Morpork city limits."

It struck Maltesi that cordial was probably the wrong word for that invitation, and that a tete-a-tete was about the last thing he wanted to have with Vetinari. By the end of it, there would probably only be one functioning tete left, and it wouldn't be Maltesi's.

"What will happen to the chocolate?" Hanna asked.

"Dennis will take care of it, milady."

"I bet he will. _She_ will." Hanna had enjoyed seeing Polk get what was due him, but now she had the leisure to be properly furious.

"Get me on land, Anthony."

**oOo**

The moment Lord Vetinari got the urgent clacks from Pseudopolis, he sent a message down to alert the Dock Workers that they were free to impound Polk's ships and lock down his office. It would take weeks to search every inch of every ship, and to record every bit of cargo. Smugglers were so clever. If the guild men looked hard enough, they'd probably find something. Lord Vetinari counted on them doing it.

He relaxed in his chair in the Oblong Office. It was a relief that Hanna made the right decisions. From the Patrician's perspective, the easy part of the whole episode was over. General intrigue was relatively simple.

Things would get harder when Hanna came home.


	16. Pleasant Good byes

**16. Pleasant Good byes**

Madam was alone in the Awfully Orange Drawing Room. She was sitting on the sofa dressed to the nines. A lovely purple silk gown, diamonds in her ears, black gloves. Hanna sat beside her.

"Was this some kind of test, Madam?"

"You're angry, and now I'm Madam instead of auntie, hm?"

"I didn't think auntie was appropriate. For me or his lordship."

"I promise that I do need the chocolate, Hanna. It will play a crucial role in one of my…business interests. I could have sent one of my people to get it once I learned that there was a local supply, but I thought I'd offer you the task. You're such an active young woman; I thought you'd be bored otherwise, spending weeks here with an old lady." She smiled in a way Hanna could only think of as a Vetinari fashion. "Besides, it was a real revelation to see you in action. Havelock did not overstate your abilities."

Hanna gave Madam a suspicious look. "Did he help you arrange all this?"

Madam hesitated.

"He did! I knew it! Have a nice holiday, my lamb!" Hanna stomped around the sitting room. "The bastard! The vile, miserable, scheming, rotten, filthy _Dreckschwein_! _Hinterfutziger Rat! Schmallspur Betruger! Aufgeblasener Schnosel!..._"

Sometimes only Uberwaldean was the proper language to cuss someone out in. (1)

Madam stuck a finger in her ear.

"My goodness. I'm sure Havelock can hear you all the way from Ankh-Morpork."

"I hope he does, the _Schlapschwanz_!" (2)

"That's enough." Madam said it in her normal tone of voice, but with a resonance that was so commanding that Hanna stopped in mid-curse.

"Sit down."

Hanna sat.

"It was my idea. Havelock was aware of it but was not directly involved until the iconographs made things more complicated."

"He knows I hate being used like this!"

"We didn't intend for you to find out. It was supposed to be a relatively simple treasure hunt. Map leads to treasure like A leads to B. Things would have gone more smoothly if Mr. Polk wasn't so ambitious. Or if you had chosen a less charming helper than Mr. Maltesi. As it is, things still turned out satisfactorily. And you, my dear," Madam poked Hanna gently, "have impressed me as much as you impress my nephew."

Hanna snorted. "Right. You have those lovely letters to Lady Margolotta."

"Oh…" Madam shrugged. "I wouldn't base too much on those."

"Why not? If they were forgeries, they were particularly bad ones."

"No, those were his words. Copies, as you guessed." She paused. "Almost all of my nephew's correspondence is, by necessity, diplomatic. Nothing he writes to anyone, especially anyone with political interests, is wholly personal. Even when he appears to be personal, he is being political. Do you understand?"

"I'm too intellectually inadequate."

"Stop sulking. You don't think clearly when you're angry but you must learn. Clear your head and consider the political ramifications of _you_."

"I don't have anything to do with politics," Hanna said stubbornly.

"So you haven't acquired any power in your own right as a result of your relationship with my nephew?"

Hanna didn't answer.

"Someone like Margolotta, who is interested as I am in the balance of power around the Disc, is naturally interested in the newer dynamics in Ankh-Morpork. There is quite a web of misiniformation around you to keep her from getting everything she'd like. Believe me, it irritates her to no end." Madam paused. "Now think of the potential impact of a set of compromising iconographs. Lady Hanna exposed, as it were."

"It would be embarrassing, but it would blow over. I _am_ a seamstress."

"Miss Hanna Louria Stein is a seamstress. Lady Hanna is a baroness who sits at the left hand of the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork. Pictures are more powerful than words. Questionable pictures of you wouldn't just be embarrassing, they would rupture the image my nephew has so carefully created with your help the past two years. The enchanting Baroness of Khavos, the wealthy, sophisticated, influential, unshakably loyal intimate companion of the most powerful man in the world – and Havelock _is_, no matter what people say about the emperor of Agatea. It doesn't matter if it's all true or not; it's the image you have across the Disc."

"You forgot to add stupid, reckless, immature..."

"Those bits are for Uberwaldean consumption and are part of the little game between Margolotta and Havelock. Do you think they just play Thud? Use your head, Hanna. If you got letters from my nephew claiming repeatedly that someone was incompetent and foolish, what would you think?"

"The opposite." It dawned on Hanna what she'd just said.

"Exactly. And if you thought about it a little longer?"

Hanna knew this game. She played it sometimes with Vetinari under different circumstances. If he told her something, she considered the opposite to be true, then assumed on second thought that what he originally told her really was true because he expected her to think he'd lied. It kept her confused half the time.

Madam was nodding. "You see now. He could be telling the truth, he could be lying. Margolotta has to decide which is which based on the information she gathers and that, by the way, is not always accurate or _interpreted_ accurately. We have the good fortune of dealing with a vampire, and vampires, even highly intelligent and insightful ones, have odd ideas about human relationships. I can tell you for a fact that she now thinks you're a physical weakness of Havelock's that he's embarrassed about, causing him to compensate by giving you a title, fortune and so on. It wasn't that long ago that she thought you really were a social experiment, a living breathing toy for my nephew."

Hanna made a face.

"And before that," said Madam, "she thought he was in love with you."

"Bollocks. And it doesn't matter now. I was angry and I slipped up with Anthony. His lordship can safely fire me and have one less thing to complain about."

"Ah, yes." Madam fixed Hanna with a severe stare. "You had a night of intense passion with Mr. Maltesi."

"That's right."

Madam's stare didn't budge. Hanna began getting flashbacks of Lord Vetinari's snake-like gazes.

"He's a fantastic lover," she said.

The silent stare was getting creepy. Hanna started fidgeting in her chair.

"He's what we seamstresses call a C5. That's code for clients who give pleasure instead of just taking it."

Madam finally blinked.

"Hanna."

"What?"

"You got sick on a golem."

"Dammit, have I had one moment of privacy this whole trip?"

Madam grinned. "No, actually."

What was meant to be a night of intense and, yes, spiteful passion with Maltesi turned into one of the lowlights of Hanna's professional career. She had every intention of seducing him. There were exciting kisses and lots of touching and initial reorganization of clothing. Then a series of waves on the ocean gripped her stomach, did a twist, and forced her to run to the edge of the upper deck and retch overboard. She thought it was overboard. There was actually a deck below her, where one of the golem crew happened to be gazing quietly out to sea.

This wasn't supposed to happen. Hanna had never been seasick before. She'd never got sick from alcohol before. She could only conclude, as Maltesi fetched an herbal tea for her stomach and some of his clothes to change into, that her stomach was being smarter than her brain. The hour of furious, grumbling nausea was dubbed "Vetinari's Revenge." Maltesi settled her in a deck chair with a blanket and the tea and told her old sailor's tales to keep her mind off it. She fell asleep around dawn.

"Frankly, I never expected such restraint and chivalry from a sailor," said Madam. "Mr. Maltesi is a very worthy gentleman. He will be rewarded for his decency." She sighed happily. "Yes, all of this was such a delicious way to get you both riled up. Shook your iron-clad professionalism, didn't it? And it did Havelock good too."

Hanna was slumped on the sofa, her head resting against the back cushion.

"A nasty thing to do, fiddling with the feelings of your own son."

Madam broke out laughing. "My _son_. Dear me..." She groped around in the sofa cushions for a stashed handkerchief she could wipe her face with. "Oh, Hanna, in a way you're right. I raised him, I taught him and I've supported him to this very day, even if some of my little plans have displeased him. I'm sure it's obvious that I loved his father. But it was that sort of unrequited love that's very irritating because it's so pathetic and romantic."

Madam folded the handkerchief carefully on her lap.

"I didn't think it such a terrible thing to give you and Havelock a little push in the right direction. He's always been so single-minded. He needs reminding that there are some things in life just as rewarding and important as a smoothly run city or a triumph in international affairs. He must realize this before it's too late."

"Too late for what?"

"Before Havelock came along, Stanwyck used to have the arrogance to say: 'After me, the deluge.' He discovered quite early that's not such a good idea. It's taking Havelock a tad longer, but I think he's coming around."

They stared at each other. Madam's arthritic cat took the opportunity to saunter into the drawing room, rub up against the ladies' legs and exit without further comment.

"Oh, no," said Hanna.

"You never know."

"_No_."

"It's best to keep an open mind about these things."

Hanna fixed Madam with a stare she hoped was firm and uncompromising. "No. It will not happen. Ever."

"Why not?"

"Where do I start? Because I'm not insane? Because your nephew is a ruthless tyrant you can't trust to lace your shoes, much less..." She couldn't even say it. Not the _C_ word. It was linked so often in prudish circles to the _M_ word.

"Besides, it wouldn't be me. I'm just a seamstress."

"I do hate it when you say that," said Madam testily.

"Well, it's true. And even he can't change that unless..." _he gets me in breach of contract and expels me from the guild for life, leaving me nothing but a bankrupt unemployed baroness with government experience_.

Madam had a peculiarly triumphant look on her face that made Hanna suspect that auntie had just read her mind.

"Does he know about all these grand plans you have for us?" she asked warily.

"He suspects, I'm sure. But these things are always better left to the women, aren't they?"

Hanna wasn't going to let it happen. She was going to watch out. From now on, she'd have two eyes on the back of her head. Three to be safe. If he ever wanted...the _M_ word...he'd have to drag her kicking and screaming to the altar, and he wouldn't do that. He wouldn't sling her over his shoulder and force her. It'd be undignified.

If he _did_ get her there somehow, he couldn't force her to agree to any of it, not in front of the wizards and guilds and nobles and her family. The whole city. The whole world. Even _he_ didn't have the power to force her mouth open to spit out the word "Yes" against her will, even if there was the _C_ word involved. Which there wouldn't be. She'd see to that. It'd take some massive, dirty, underhanded plot to force her to...

"Oh, _gods_," she moaned.

Then she ran her hands over her face and tried to get a hold of herself. This was Lord Vetinari they were talking about. The Patrician of Ankh-Morpork. Clever tyrant, benevolent despot, puppet master and poster boy for sang froid. He never did anything without a good political reason, and there was none for attaching Hanna to the old ball and chain. As far as _M_ and _C_ went, she was more than safe as long as he stayed the cynical bugger he was. She wasn't going to get herself ensnared in his aunt's brand of madness.

"Would you be offended, Madam, if I said I think you're going senile?"

"I wouldn't take that from anyone else but you, my dear. Now, listen." She extended her right hand. "If you promise to forgive your auntie for my little game and not blame my nephew for this episode, I will never interfere with you again. Things will take their course one way or another. Deal?"

Madam and Hanna shook hands. Then Madam hugged her while painfully trying to cross her fingers behind her back.

**Note**: (1) Instead of translating the curses from the Uberwaldean, think words like mean, detestable, worthless, pompous, small-time and fraud. In short, Hanna was expressing that his lordship was not a very nice person.

(2) This word implied that Hanna was not impressed by the functioning of his lordship's intimate anatomy.

**oOo**

The ship was the Star of Ephebie and it was not carrying prawns. Hanna asked Maltesi specifically about that before booking passage back to Ankh-Morpork. She was given the best cabin on board. Trolls carried her trunks up the gangplank. Two were filled with souvenirs she'd rustled up the past couple of days. A tank of Pseudopolis Air was reserved for Mrs. Palm. There were sweets for the Palace maids and the famous Carrack graphite pencils for the clerks. A slab of air-cured Pseudopolis ham was destined for the feeding bowl of Wuffles. A small barrel of the local beer was packed up for her family.

And for the Patrician, she bought the Pseudopolis flag in the shape of a neck tie. He didn't wear neck ties. That's why she bought it. It was the type of gift he gave other people, things they couldn't or didn't want to use. He deserved his own back every now and then. She would've preferred to buy him a noose, but she couldn't find any in the fashionable black that would match his robes.

"So, all settled, are you?"

Maltesi appeared in the doorway of her cabin, a clipboard in his hand. His face was healed enough for him to shave with only minor pain.

"It smells wonderful in here."

He followed his nose to the little dressing table. There was a vase full of lavender next to a pot of stomach-soothing tea.

"Had that brought in special. I didn't want to take any chances. Customer service, you know." He checked something on his clipboard. "You're not carrying any contraband, are you?"

She smiled. "Definitely not. Are you?"

"Definitely not. Maybe I'll ship some things now and then for Madam Meserole if she pays triple _in-sewer-ants_." He rattled the curtains and checked something else on his clipboard. "She's got to pay if I get involved in another one of her plots."

"I hope neither of us do."

Part of the reason Maltesi was being so thorough about Hanna's cabin was that it was an _extremely_ expensive passage she'd booked. She paid quadruple the normal price and he took it, no questions asked. He felt he deserved it.

He tucked his pencil behind his ear and put his clipboard under his arm.

"Right. It looks like everything is ready to go. So…" He stuck out his hand. "Have a good trip, milady."

They shook hands. He combined it with a deep Pseudopolis-style bow that got gravity involved in making his glasses fall off his nose. He scooped them up off the carpet. Hanna smiled at him warmly.

"You're a real gentleman, Anthony."

"No, I'm a nice guy. We always get the short end of the stick. Universal law of nature. All right, I haven't been killed and at least _my_ ships aren't confiscated, but I still think Vetinari's a bastard and you're making a mistake going back."

"I can't argue with that. At least you've got Rachel and Alison to keep you company."

"I'm done with seamstresses. Maybe I'll meet a nice nautch girl in Klatch."

Hanna gave him a long kiss. That was all right by Maltesi because last time, his lips had been swollen from that beating he took. It really wasn't a new kiss, it was more like a correction of an old one. When he wrapped his arms around her, he dropped his clipboard. A freak storm that grounded all ships on the docks until further notice would've been perfect just then, but it didn't happen. So eventually, he let go of her, muttering a last unflattering remark about that gangster czar of Ankh-Morpork who didn't deserve what he had.


	17. E Pluribus Optimum

**A-N**: Many many many apologies for taking so long with the last chapter. I've had a helluva past 6 weeks or so. Hopefully the wait was worth it – this chapter should leave y'all smiling, and that's my goal in life, right? (grin). As far as the next Hanna-Havelock story goes, there isn't one at the moment, and I don't know when/if there will be one. For those of you who don't already know the reason, check out my Live Journal. So...enjoy the rest of the story! **oOo**

**17. E Pluribus Optimum**

After three days at sea spent mostly kneeling over a chamber pot, the first thing Hanna did on the docks of Ankh-Morpork was wobble down the gangplank, ease herself to her knees and kiss the ground. Then she wiped her mouth on her sleeve because Ankh-Morpork wasn't known for its taste.

There were iconographers. Otto happened to be the only one set up perfectly for the kneeling shot, which tomorrow would be on the front page of the _Times_, to the great satisfaction of Lord Vetinari. There were clusters of people of the dock variety as well as more well-dressed gawkers kept back from the main circle of events by the watchmen Sergeant Colon and Corporal Nobbs. Comments were made about Hanna's hair, not all of them complimentary, but all of them made with admiration. Octiron Blonde may not always be attractive but it was very, very expensive.

In the background, back behind the crowd, was a familiar all-black carriage.

Drumknott stepped out of the circle of people, a massive bouquet of flowers in his arms, a sopping great smile on his face. He was genuinely happy to see Hanna. He hoped his boss would be easier to deal with from now on.

"Welcome back, milady! His lordship trusts you had a pleasant journey."

"Thank you, Mr. Drumknott. Is he here?" she asked, though she knew he was. Griffin had told her. The Pseudopolis episode made Hanna think it unwise to believe anything anybody ever said to her again, but there was something honest about Griffin. When he showed up on the Star of Ephebie an hour after it left Pseudopolis, he admitted right away that he was a spy set to watch her during the journey. She wondered how many honest spies there were in the world and why Vetinari would hire one. Regardless, he turned out to be a priceless companion. He supplied Hanna with fennel tea and dried biscuits to ease her stomach and read to her when she lay in her cabin in a swoon of tearful panic and nausea. Semaphore-clacks messages dashed between the ship, Pseudopolis and the Palace, all of them sent and received by Griffin. He was the one who told her the fate of the Hershebian chocolate: it was destined for Djelibeybi, where Madam had scheduled a coup to topple the General sometime at the end of the week. Like Polk, he would be arrested for possession of a very controlled substance.

The last clacks informed her that Lord Vetinari had changed his plans and was going to meet her at the Ankh-Morpork docks.

"He's in the carriage, milady," said Drumknott.

"Good. Do you have any money?"

"Pardon?"

"I used all mine up giving tips on the ship. Could I borrow a dollar or two? I'll pay you back."

Drumknott searched his pockets and came up with a few coins. "There you are, milady. Now, if you'll come this way, his lordship would--"

But Hanna was already cutting through the crowd toward a few stalls set up further up the docks, the last of the morning fish market sellers. Drumknott did a dignified double-step back to the Patrician's carriage. The black curtain was twitched aside and the window was pushed up by a pale, blue-veined hand.

"Problem, Drumknott?"

"Her ladyship is, er...busy, my lord. She's up at the fish market." Drumknott squinted. "She appears to be buying some kind of fish."

Silence from inside the carriage. Then the swish of fabric moving across the leather seat, Vetinari shifting closer to the window. He didn't show himself.

"What kind of fish?"

Drumknott got a little closer to the stalls, observed a few moments, then returned to the carriage.

"It's herring, sir."

"Herring."

"Yes, sir. Smoked, I believe. The seller is wrapping some up for her."

The fish was wrapped in old newspaper. Hanna tucked the package under her arm, then moved off to another stall. She opened the lid on a barrel, leaned over and took a long whiff of the contents.

"Drumknott?"

"She's buying something else, my lord. I'm not quite sure what..." The clerk had to move in closer again to see what was going on, then trotted back to the carriage, flower petals trailing behind him from the bouquet he still clutched in his hand.

"I think it's pickles, sir."

Vetinari's face finally appeared in the window. He was frowning.

"Pickles."

"Yes, sir. The seller is putting quite a few of them in a large jar for her ladyship. With pickle juice from the barrel."

A tiny curl of Vetinari's lip showed his opinion of pickle juice. Hanna never ate pickles except in his presence. She did it solely to annoy him.

"She's coming now, my lord. Wait. Wait. I think she's... Now it looks like she's buying an egg."

Sighing, Vetinari propped his elbow against the carriage door and rested his cheek on his hand. Hanna's revenge was obviously starting already. No one else would dare make the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork wait for the purchase of an egg.

Drumknott offered a running commentary.

"I assume it's a hard boiled egg because the seller is peeling it for her right there. And now...the egg is being salted. Her ladyship is handing the pickle jar to the egg seller to free up a hand. She's taken the egg and... Yes, there it goes. She ate it all in one bite. She must not have had breakfast yet, my lord. She's got the pickle jar back. And now...now, I think she's really coming."

Drumknott opened the carriage door and stood at attention as Hanna came out of the crowd with her purchases. She thanked him for the flowers and thrust them into the carriage, followed by the fish. Then she held out the pickle jar.

"Could you hold this, sir?"

Lord Vetinari pulled a pair of black gloves from his pocket and put them on before taking the jar. He balanced it between his fingertips like it was bomb about to go off.

Before letting Drumknott help her into the carriage, Hanna ordered the driver to take them to her house, not the Palace. When she was settled inside, she took the pickle jar and set it between her feet. It sloshed quietly as the carriage rolled into motion.

There weren't any greetings. There weren't any inquiries into the journey or comments about looking well-rested (neither of them were), and no updates about what happened at home while Hanna was away. They looked out their respective windows, the fish and flowers forming a barrier on the seat between them.

Morning rush hour traffic slowed things down. They got stuck near the cattle market, which didn't improve the mix of unpleasant fish-pickle scents inside the carriage. Vetinari's hand hovered in front of his nose.

"Very well. I will begin the sparring match." He drew a breath. "I trust you gained valuable insight into my family and my aunt during your trip."

Hanna turned on him, eyes flashing.

"She deserves to be drawn and quartered! They put me on a horse, Havelock. A _horse_!"

"I made it clear to Madam how displeased I am with the whole episode. She will be doing several unpleasant political tasks for me to make up for it."

"Nothing will make up for it. You should be ashamed of yourself, allowing her to string me along."

Shame was not a feeling the Patrician was familiar with. He paused to see if something shame-like settled over him. It didn't. There was something else but it wasn't shame.

Hanna hefted the jar into her lap, unscrewed the lid and took out a fat pickle with her fingers.

"You should also be ashamed of those letters you wrote about me."

"I believe my aunt explained the--"

"When you're being personal, you're being political. Pardon me if I call that utter bosh. It doesn't excuse any of it. I don't give a damn why you did it, or that you did it behind my back. The fact is that you did it at all after two years of..." She couldn't find the word she wanted, and went for, work. If you wanted to complain to someone about how stupid, immature and useless your seamstress is, you should have got a girl who fit the bill. I know a few who do. But that's not who _I_ am, and I won't suffer having you or anyone else insult me that way for any reason, political or otherwise."

Her point was rounded off by waving the pickle at the Patrician. Juice splattered across his cloak. He slowly took out his handkerchief and dabbed it at the fabric.

"Well?" demanded Hanna.

"What is it you would like me to say?"

"You could say you're sorry."

"I was rather waiting for you to do that."

"Oh, sir. You've got some _nerve_." She took an indignant bite of her pickle.

"Indeed. That's how I've got where I am today. You appear to be well-stocked with it as well. It took a great deal of nerve to drag poor Mr. Maltesi into your web of deceit."

Hanna almost choked. "_My_ web of deceit? Who was doing the intriguing behind my back while I risked my neck for a slab of chocolate?"

The Patrician relaxed into the seat, his arms folded.

"If I recall the details, there was a certain amount of blackmail involved at the beginning, hm? And then there was the desecration of a temple graveyard. Impersonation of a corpse. Gratuitous nudity captured in iconograph form..." He held up a hand to stop Hanna from interrupting. "A good deal of alcohol, at least one minor breach of client confidentiality, several rounds of insults aimed at me, expressed in a most underhanded manner in two languages, and – lest we forget – the seduction, partly involving a song that began, 'I want to be loved by you.' Not subtle, but effective, as we saw when you sailed off for a romantic evening at sea with poor Mr. Maltesi." He frowned. "My word, it certainly all _sounds_ deceitful, doesn't it?"

"I thought I had cause."

"So did I."

"It's not the same thing!" She shoved the rest of the pickle into her mouth.

Gently, the Patrician took the jar out of her lap and set it back on the floor.

"I suggest we call a truce, a moratorium on deceit against one another. Deceit against others is perfectly all right as long as it's well thought out and has a clear end that justifies the means."

Hanna counted to ten in her head, then said, "All right. But from now on, don't say anything to Lady Margolotta about me. Not _one word_. I won't ask you to stop writing her; I've heard you're practically twins separated at birth. I couldn't possibly come between you. Just don't say anything to her about me anymore. It should drive her crazy. I don't know the woman but I think she should be punished in all of this along with the rest of us."

"Feeling vindictive, are we?"

"Promise me."

The Patrician gazed up at the ceiling of the carriage.

"Promise me, sir. I'm not any of her business. I don't ask you about her, do I?"

"You _could_."

"Havelock..."

"Mmm... Very well. I will not mention you ever again, if that is your wish."

"Even indirectly."

"My, you are thorough this morning." He sighed. "I will not mention you even indirectly. I hope this jealous nonsense will stop now."

"I'm not jealous." Hanna snapped a rose off of its stem, pushed the rest of the bouquet aside and started plucking the petals off. "But I was wondering: What was all that about inviting Anthony to the Palace if he ever showed up in Ankh-Morpork?"

"It was just as it sounded– a friendly invitation to meet the gentleman who unwittingly did so much good."

"Mhm. And I suppose you'd kill him with kindness, wouldn't you?"

The Patrician looked confused. "Dear me, why should I? There are so many more efficient methods."

The carriage had been lurching slowly through the streets, the area it was passing through at the moment defined by the smells drifting through the window with the cold air. Cattle urine was left behind, as was the ancient smell of grease from the Treacle Mine Road. The more intense scent of the Ankh faded as the carriage passed into the street where Hanna's house was, a pleasant middle class lane lined with chestnut trees.

The house was warm. A fire burned in the parlor hearth, another in the stove in the kitchen where a kettle was whistling. Hanna didn't have servants, and assumed the Patrician had enlisted some of his to get the place ready for her. Which means he'd guessed she would want to go home – to _her_ home – not the Palace. Lord Vetinari fixed tea while Hanna's luggage was carried in by the driver and footman. Then Hanna and the Patrician were left alone to drink in front of the fire.

"Griffin informed me that you had a rough passage," said the Patrician between sips. "Rather a puzzle considering the sea was uncommonly calm the entire way."

"It was nothing."

"Just a little bug?"

Hanna realized she was clutching her cup too tightly and tried to relax. "It was nothing."

"Still, you wouldn't object to Dr. Lawn examining you after you've had some rest. Just to be sure."

"I don't need to be examined."

"It would be wise."

"A waste of time."

"I don't require your presence at the Palace until the end of the week. You have plenty of time to get some sleep and have the good doctor check that everything is in order."

"I don't want to be examined, sir."

Lord Vetinari set his cup aside. "Ah. _Want_ is very different than _need_. I can understand not _wanting_ an examination; I know very little about it but I can't imagine it's pleasant. However, when I hear reports that you've spent the last weeks with an increase in appetite, emotional instability, fatigue and nausea, the logical conclusion is that an examination is what you _need_. Unless you're aware of other biological factors that would rule out a "

Hanna slammed her tea cup onto the tray. "This is ridiculous! I'm a seamstress!"

"I was not aware your profession was exempt from the laws of nature."

"_That_ can't happen to me. I'm a professional!"

"E pluribus optimum," the Patrician murmured.

It took her a moment to sort it out. _Of the many, the best_. The compliment didn't make her feel any better. She hunted around for paper and started folding a piece obsessively on her thigh. "There's nothing to worry about," she said. The paper was folded, creased, crinkled. "Bloody hell," she whispered, "what if there is?"

"We'll sort it out if things come to that. There is no sense making yourself ill with worry." He frowned. "Which is what I expect you've been doing."

"I'll be ruined!"

The Patrician looked surprised. "Really? My goodness. Is that the usual effect?"

"You're making fun of me, Havelock. How could you make fun of me at a time like this?"

"Pardon. It's a coping mechanism. Of course I'm burning with anticipation. Dr. Lawn will be by on Thursday, by the way." He watched her folding and tucking and creasing the paper, then snatched it out of her hands. "You don't need to _fidget_ so."

There was an edge to his voice that made Hanna almost slither off the couch. When the Patrician was nervous, there was definitely something to be nervous about. Panic soured her stomach, which wasn't very stabile to begin with. She had the urge to run to a window and get some fresh air, to _breath_. Her chest constricted, as if iron bands had been clamped around her lungs, and her hands were moist, the reason her origami didn't get very far. All she could think, over and over, was _It can't be true_. These things happened to other people, not to her. _It can't be true_.

She didn't realize she was crying until the Patrician put his arm around her and tried to give her the folded paper back.

"Of course you can fidget all you like," he said.

She flung the paper onto the floor. "Don't tell me you'd be glad. You'd be lying. I _know_ you."

He dabbed his pickle-scented handkerchief at her cheek.

"When I was a young man, long before I became Patrician, I developed a theory: in politics, it is useful to cultivate the qualities of water. A river, for instance, yields at the slightest touch, yet has the power to carve valleys into the earth. Later when I had some years behind me as Patrician, the special interests in the city wondered how I managed to stay in power when I'd essentially yielded to their every demand. The ultimate power is in flexibility, Hanna. Many people misunderstand that; they think a kind of iron-willed control is the secret. Margolotta thinks this. She hasn't moved beyond basic notions of power, past the idea of strength through rigidity. Curiously enough, you think the same way, at least you appear to at times like these when you fall into despair at something you can't control. My suggestion is to yield to whatever comes, as I will. Don't invent problems before they present themselves and don't label something an evil when it's quite possibly a blessing."

He wiped her nose, then set his damp handkerchief fastidiously aside. "Will you stop fighting? You'll feel much better if you do."

"I can still be scared. I have a right to be scared."

"As long as the fear is not paralyzing. I need you as fit as possible for some work I've been saving for you. Whatever Dr. Lawn's verdict, you will have no excuse to shirk your duties."

He took a stack of files from a table and eased back with them onto the couch.

"These are the preliminary background reports worked up by Saffron about the water situation. Genua has had some problems with a contagious illness that appears to arise from tainted drinking water, so I thought it time to do a survey of our own resources. A small staff has been put together to compile the results of an investigation into wells, fountains, water tables, pumps and so forth. A team of engineers are ready to assess water quality in various key locations. I believe Saffron has noted recommendations."

Hanna wiped the last tears from her face, amazed as she always was at the Patrician's rapid pendulum swings – tender and attentive with her one moment, all business the next. Sighing, she skimmed the thick file he set on her lap, most of it in her secretary's handwriting, some of it in the Patrician's. There were instructions, numbers, definitions, city maps, lists of experts and their duties.

Her mind couldn't fasten on it. Municipal water quality. What did that matter when there were perhaps so many critical things happening inside her own skin?

"It looks like there's nothing left for me to do but be sure everyone does his job," she said wearily.

"You've just hit on the fundamental secret of leadership, my love." The Patrician handed her a second file. "A rather good survey of the water supply was made under Lord Bigglesworth one hundred years ago. Of particular interest are the aquifers he notes hubwards of the city that we were not aware of. If you look here--"

Hanna put a hand on his arm. "_What_ did you say?"

"I said there are aquifers hubwards of the city. _Do_ pay attention, Hanna. This new concept of public health is of major importance and it will not do for you to get woolly-headed at the start of the project."

"Woolly-headed! I am not woolly-headed. I distinctly heard you say--"

"Aquifers."

"No, before that, you said--"

"Lord Bigglesworth, yes." He tapped the file in her lap. "For a man who wore corsets under his suits, he had a good mind for engineering. Disregard the more technical aspects of the survey in favor of..."

"Havelock."

"...the central points of well access, water purity and..."

"_Havelock_."

"Yes? Am I going too fast?"

"You know very well what you're doing, and it's going to stop." She poked him in the chest. "You can't just say something like that and expect me to forgive everything and just fall into your arms like some kind of..." Hanna made a face, "...storybook princess."

"At the moment, I expect you to fall into my arms for thirty thousand per annum."

"That's right. Don't you forget it."

"Gods forbid." He unfolded another map from one of the files. "May we continue?"

Lord Vetinari explained the strengths and weaknesses of Lord Bigglesworth's survey in relation to what his engineers had found in the hubwards suburbs in recent weeks. Hanna didn't listen to a single word until he said, "...and so, we come to the conclusion that two of the wells might contain the purest water in the area. After our people take the measurements, we'll be having Palace water delivered solely from there. We have to keep you healthy, my love."

"I can't believe it!" Hanna whacked his shoulder with a file. "You said it again!"

The Patrician looked offended. "I certainly don't deserve a frontal attack."

"It's worse than being called lamb! Stop it!"

"Of course I will. As soon as you're round enough to fit the description, I will call you...mmm....my little butterball."

Hanna laughed. "If you ever, _ever_ call me that, Vimes'll be looking for your remains with a magnifying glass."

"My..." The Patrician tapped his lips with his fingers. "That sounds like a serious threat. I'm afraid there are penalties for threatening the Patrician." He strolled over to the table, lifted the papers there and held up the soft, white feather he found underneath.

Hanna backed up from the couch. "I'm sorry, your lordship."

He smiled. It was a devilish smile that wasn't affected by apologies. He took a step toward her. She took a step back.

"I'm really, really sorry. I take back everything, sir. You can call me whatever you want."

"It's far too late for that, my dear, sweet, unfortunate Hanna."

In his hand was _the_ Feather. It was the most exquisite torture known to Hanna, and it had been used on her only once. That was enough. Still backing up, she clasped her hands together and started pleading.

"You don't have to do this, your lordship...sir...Havelock..." She squeezed her eyes shut a moment and tried not to think too hard about what she was about to say, "..._dear_." The word sat on her tongue like a sticky piece of melted butterscotch. "We can _talk_ about these things."

He was still moving towards her.

"I was lying before," she said. "I love it when you call me lamb. And my love. And even... Oh blast! Butterball is just too silly!" She banged into a plant stand and caught the miniature fern before it fell over. That cost her backing up time. The Patrician closed the gap until there was a wall at her back.

"Why do you bring me to such ugliness?" he sighed, the Feather twiddling in his fingers.

"All right, how about this. There's nothing in the world I'd rather do than..." she squeezed her eyes shut again, "...have your child. If that's what's going to happen. I'm so happy about it that I look unhappy, you know? That's _real_ happiness. And...Havelock, wait, don't do that. Listen. I realize now I was put on this Disc to...er...obey you in all things and to worship you like a god..."

She fell onto her knees and threw her arms around his legs in preparation for the real, pathetic begging. It wasn't necessary because he was already laughing. It was the word _obey_. There was always something comical when it came out of Hanna's mouth. _Worship_ came in a close second. He laughed so much that he had to go sit down.

Hanna stayed on the floor by the wall. She was laughing now too. Of course she was. The Feather was out of her immediate vicinity.

Eventually, Lord Vetinari patted the cushion beside him. "Come sit, Hanna. I have something very important to ask you."

She didn't move. She didn't want to. But he was sitting there looking so thoughtfully at the fire that she sat beside him out of curiosity and dread. He took her hand.

"I hesitated to bring this up before because it is a sensitive issue," he said, "one that I find difficult to address."

There was silence. The Patrician was pursing his lips.

"I have never asked anyone this before."

"For good reason, probably."

"Indeed." He blinked at her. "I'm afraid I may not express myself properly."

"Then why bother? We can just forget about it and--"

"No, no. It's far too important. In fact, I may be...distressed if you say no."

Hanna's stomach flopped. Lord Vetinari tightened his hold of her hand and gazed into her eyes.

"Madam's little game taught me to accept certain...realities. The past two years have not always been smooth between you and I, but they have been, overall, a success. We are close enough that anything can be said between us without guile or subtext. You are the only person on the Disc who has the courage to tell me the truth at all times, and the only one I can safely tell the truth to. It is a vulnerability, this unlimited openness, but it also a gift." He paused.

Hanna held her breath.

"Since we have such an excellent basis in trust, openness and – I dare say – affection, I am confident enough to ask: Would it be possible for you to consider, at some point in the near future, dyeing your hair back to its original color?"

Hanna blinked. "What?"

"Blonde doesn't quite suit you."

"_What_?"

"I realize a gentleman who criticizes a lady's hair is usually inviting a painful death of some kind, but you and I have been through enough together to discuss these things like mature adults."

She stared at him with her mouth open, then put her face in her hands. "Gods, if you wanted to torture me, you should've used the feather. It's more merciful."

"I have no idea what you mean." He patted her on the knee. "Do think about it. Get some rest, eat well, and you'll make the right decision."

When Lord Vetinari went to fetch his cloak and stick, Hanna curled up on the couch and tried to calm herself down. It was the close call of all close calls, and she hadn't decided if she'd ever forgive him for it. Manipulative weasel.

He opened the front door. The cold wind scattered the ashes in the fireplace and bothered the flames. "Dear me, I nearly forgot," he said. "Hanna?"

"Haven't you scared me enough for one day, sir?"

"Aside from the business with the water supply and your hair and Dr. Lawn, of course, you may want to give a thought to your preference for a wedding date." He shut the door behind him.

A minute of frozen shock passed. Then Hanna slithered off the sofa, flung open the door and yelled, "I'M NOT MARRYING YOU!"

His coach was already halfway up the street, out of ear shot.

END


End file.
